


Purgatorium

by TheCreepingShadow



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Blood, Blood dreams, Character Study, Experiments, Explicit Language, Gen, Gore, Hallucinations, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Mentions of Substance Abuse, Minor Original Character(s), Minor canon divergence, Mirrors, Nightmares, POV Third Person Limited, Psychological Horror, Psychological Thriller, Self Harm, The Murkoff Account-based, Unreliable Narrator, mentions of psychosomatic pregnancies, pre!outbreak and outbreak
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-07-07 16:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15912102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCreepingShadow/pseuds/TheCreepingShadow
Summary: "He has been playing with fire for far too long, believing himself to be its master. And in the end, he got burned."Working for Murkoff Richard Trager got more than he bargained for. One grave mistake costs him more than just his job, and he soon comes to the realization that his rank had never meant anything to Murkoff. In the end, he was just another nuisance to be disposed of. Subjected to the Morphogenic Engine treatment, he struggles to maintain the last bits of his sanity as the line between dream and reality begins to blur.





	1. Dreams of blood

**Author's Note:**

> So lately I've been quite inspired to write a story dedicated to Trager, having created an entire rough outline. Since there weren't that many Trager-centric fanfics I could find in this fandom (and most of those are not finished), I just went ahead and started writing my own that would suit my own preferences.
> 
> By virtue of featuring a limited 3rd person perspective and the very nature of the game, any views depicted in the story do not reflect my own in most cases.  
> Minor deviations from the canon source material exist to accommodate certain needs for this story and to resolve the one or the other inconsistency and headscratcher I had occurring in my mind. They should not interfere with what is given in canon per se, however.
> 
> I sincerely hope you enjoy this story! Feedback is welcome.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard Trager, executive of the Research and Development department and head of Business Development, finds that the nightmares and hallucinations he has been experiencing for a while already only increase in their frequency and vividness. A fear that they might end up impeding his career creeps up on him.  
> Meanwhile, Jeremy Blaire has found an interesting observation concerning the female employees and former patients of Mount Massive Asylum.

_The stagnant air in the makeshift surgery room reeked heavily of blood and rotting flesh. Moans of living and dying men mixed with the buzzing of flies and the rattling of chains in a quiet cacophony, sounding from the adjacent room. The body beneath him on the operating table twitched weakly as he was trying to isolate the liver, each cut with the scalpel carried out with the precision of a skilled surgeon. And that was what he was. What he had always been._  
_Another cut and the liver finally became separated from the body. He lay the blood-stained scalpel down on the table and took the organ with both of his hands, carefully pulling it out of the body and placing it on the metal cart with his surgical tools that stood right next to him._  
_It was done at last. He swiped the sweat away from his forehead with his right hand before casting a short glance at the patient's face. Eyes stared somewhere in the distance, ever open, mortal terror and pain now permanently frozen in the features, skin greying. The patient didn't make it. He had feared as much when the patient had suddenly gone silent during the procedure. Alas, not every patient could survive their treatment – in the end, he was just a doctor and not a miracle-worker. Oh well. At least he had the liver. He was sure that quite a few customers would be willing to pay a hefty sum for this one. Of course, Jeremy Blaire may not have led the healthiest lifestyle, but his organs should still be in acceptable condition. He would need to store them appropriately though. But first, he needed to wash up. The surgery had left some stains. It would do no good to run about covered in blood. A surgeon needed to maintain proper hygiene etiquette after all._  
_He went over to the washbasin, careful not to step into the gore strewn around the white-tiled floor with his bare feet, turning on the tab. He washed his arms with the icy-cold water, watching as the diluted blood slowly vanished in the drain, before splashing some water on his face. Once his arms were clean again, he turned off the tab. His eyes shifted from the basin to the broken mirror above..._

Rick woke up in an instant and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, breathing heavily, cold sweat forming on his skin. His heart was thumping wildly, seemingly ready to burst any moment. It felt as though an invisible weight was put on him with no way of removing it. He lay in his bed for a while, unmoving, trying to process what he had just seen.  
His dreams had been getting only worse lately. He could remember every gory detail of each of these dreams, one nastier than the other; so vivid had they all been. Almost each of them revolved around the same theme. Familiar and unfamiliar faces contorted into grimaces of unimaginable agony. Bodies mutilated, eviscerated, disfigured until they were unrecognizable. Some of them had belonged to those he could consider his friends and even his family. And the cause of all that was him. 

Rick had not thought that much of these nightmares when they had first started appearing. He had reckoned that they would come with his particular job and fade once he became accustomed to it. It was not like he was ever particularly horrified by what was happening in the asylum in the first place. The promise of huge profit made sticking around with this business worth it after all. Perhaps he had just been reading too many surgical articles lately...  
Yet, the dreams had only increased in their frequency, their liveliness, their _grisliness_. Maybe the place was getting to him, as much as he would hate to admit it. A dangerous thought, he knew. Very dangerous. He could only hope that no one would ever catch up on what was going on in his head.  
He breathed in, his heart having returned to its normal rate, and stood up, walking over to the bathroom. His sight promptly went to the mirror hanging above the washbasin, its golden frame mildly glistening in the electric light. Everything was fine about him. Everything was as it should be. About the only minor flaw Rick could detect about himself were the dark circles beneath his eyes, just barely noticeable. Nothing out of the ordinary; something that could be easily explained.  
If he just behaved like his usual self, no one would have reasons to become suspicious. All he needed was a good breakfast and some fine gourmet coffee, and he would be set for the day. And perhaps just one line as well. If he just distracted himself enough...

However, the nightmarish images would not leave him alone, no matter how much he tried to push them back in his mind while he was preparing himself for work. 

* * *

Mister Langen stood before an open cupboard, scratching the back of his head, brows furrowed in annoyance. He kept staring at the cupboard's contents for a while before finally closing it.

“I can't believe it. Someone stole my jello,” he exclaimed, speaking more to himself than to anyone in the social room. He turned around. “My stuff just keeps getting stolen.” His eyes scanned the present staff as though he was searching for the potential culprit. No one seemed to feel particularly addressed, however.  
Rick could not help but smirk. 

“Anything without a name can be taken, them's the rules,” he replied before taking a sip from his coffee, leaning against the counter. “You didn't forget to mark your stuff, did ya?”  
Not that that would ever prevent anyone here from taking what they thought belonged to them right at the moment. 

“I _didn't_ ,” Mister Langen spat. “I swear, someone keeps messing with me on purpose!”

“Yes. I'm sure there's in fact an entire plot going on against ya,” Rick commented, amused.

“From the looks of it, there just might,” the other, still annoyed executive said, his gaze fixed on Rick as he approached the table and sat down on a chair. 

“Hey, what are you looking at me like this for? I didn't do anything!” Rick retorted, feigning an expression of hurt over the implied accusation. It was all good fun though. And he really didn't this time. For all he knew, that jello may now be used for engulfing some poor wretch's stapler. Even Murkoff staff could still appreciate the joys of the occasional office prank. 

“Someone did,” was all that Mister Langen answered, mumbling under his breath. Then he sighed, resigned. “Ah, I reckon it's just some malcontent who feels like I've treated them unfairly and now wants to get at me.” 

Rick drank the last drops of his coffee and placed the dirty, empty cup in the sink.

“Well, it was nice chattin' with ya. Tell me when you've found the culprit. I've gotta go now,” he said, nearing the door. “Ya know what they say – time is money, and costs are not going to calculate themselves.”

“Yeah. See you later, Trager,” Mister Langen replied, still brooding.

Rick briefly waved his hand as a goodbye before he opened the door and left the social room, immediately heading back to his office. Once he arrived there, he sat down on the swivel chair at his desk and began wading through his emails. The first one was Mister Walsh's confirmation for his request to process one particular orderly, David Annapurna, as a patient following Rick's discovery of a threatening email.  
The executive smiled to himself. Such a naïve fool that orderly had been. What had he been hoping to accomplish by bluntly threatening to contact the press? He hadn't really thought that Murkoff would just let him go like that, willing to accept the prospect of unwanted visitors poking their noses into affairs that did not concern them?  
Rick could not deny that processing unruly staff as patients was a harsh way to deal with them. However, any potential danger to the project and Murkoff needed to be dealt with in the fastest and most efficient way possible. It was his job to make sure that things went smoothly and that the cogwheels kept running. Remove anything that could bring unnecessary costs to the business. Root out the weed to allow the project to prosper.

He wanted to check the next email when all of a sudden the door to his office swung open, startling him. He looked up from his computer to see no one other than Jeremy Blaire himself enter the room. The other man had at least enough decency to close the door behind him before he approached the desk, sitting down on one of the chairs standing across it.  
In terms of attire, Jeremy could not be any more different from Rick. It did not matter whether there were going to be any important business meetings or not; Jeremy always preferred to go about in his formal clothes at the asylum – mostly dark blue suits like the one he was wearing right now.  
Rick preferred to keep things much simpler for himself. He did not need any fancy attire to be treated with respect (or fear for that matter).

He greeted his friend with a smile. “Ah, good to see ya, Jer.”

“Good to see you, too, Rick.” Jeremy returned the smile. “It was fun hitting the greens last week. We really should make the drive more often.”

Rick nodded in agreement. “I wouldn't mind doing it again this weekend, if you're free.”

“Sounds good. I will just need to see what time would be most suitable for me. I'll text it to you later,” Jeremy replied. After a short pause, he continued, “Now for the reason I came here – I don't know whether you have been following the project back in 2010, but apparently we had been having problems with female patients and even some employees experiencing psychosomatic pregnancies. Apparently it had something to do with the Morphogenic Engine interacting with their immune system? I'm not sure; it's all Greek to me. Am I right?”

A brief smirk appeared on Jeremy's lips as though he could predict Rick's agreement with him.

“Mhmm.” 

Something was suddenly arising inside of Rick's mind; something that he had tried to suppress these last few weeks. Something abstract that wanted to take a solid form again upon Jeremy's words. He tried to ignore that feeling.

“So I guess this is why we don't have any female patients here at Mount Massive any more, right?” he concluded, his voice having taken on a slightly more serious tone.

Jeremy nodded. “Yes. A pity if you ask me. The Morphogenic Engine activity in the ladies' marrow was off the charts. God knows mental illness is an equal opportunity affliction. It seems unethical to pass up on such a potential windfall. On the other hand, a vast majority of these 'pregnancies' ended in the woman's death.”

“You said that some employees were affected by these psychosomatic pregnancies as well. How many known cases are there?” Rick inquired.  
There had been a rise in employee pregnancy as of late. Just a short time ago he would have attributed this phenomenon to a minor “baby boom” going on for reasons he could neither comprehend, nor simply bother with. But with the information that Jeremy just gave him...

“Not that many so far. However, most of those employees that were affected died upon giving birth to non-existent children, too. There does seem to be an upward trend as far as the number is concerned as well,” Jeremy answered. “Frankly, this is getting more difficult to sweep under the rug. We might need to reassign or terminate the female employees if it continues, which in turn might carry the risk of future lawsuits against us.”

Psychosomatic pregnancies in employees. Could it be that...? No, Rick must not think about this right now. Besides, he could not base his decisions on mere hypotheses occurring as faint thoughts in his mind. This was not worth the risk.

He sighed. “If that's the way it is, then...” He stopped mid-sentence, perturbed by the scene that was suddenly unfolding before him. Jeremy's eyes were glazed akin to a blind person's. Blood trickled down the other man's face, which bore several hideous wounds. Jeremy was not sitting in a comfortable brown chair any more, but an old blood-stained wheelchair, his wrists and ankles tightly bound to it by brown leather straps. His suit was all tattered and torn, revealing a disfigured body beneath it, stitches traversing it as though someone had cut it open and then sewn back together several times. _Oh, this patient had been such an interesting case_. Leaning back in his own chair, Rick interlaced his boney fingers, fingernails grown long and ragged from the lack of proper care. His own arms were scarred as well. 

“Rick, are you alright?”

Jeremy's voice made him snap back to reality. His heart was hammering in his chest again. He remembered his last dream. He could very well remember carving up his own friend – the person who was now sitting across him all fine and well.

“Uh... yeah. I'm plenty fine,” Rick answered, trying to regain his calm. Then he added as if to deflect any suspicion that might have arisen in Jeremy, “Must have overdone with the coke I guess.”

“You are becoming too reckless, my friend. Mind you, we still need you with a clear head,” Jeremy retorted. He smiled. “Take that as an advice from your superior.” 

The man stood up and adjusted his tie. “And don't keep it all to yourself. Sharing is caring after all.” His smile only grew wider. “Well, I'm going. I just thought I'd share some interesting findings with you.”

Rick managed to smile in response. “Alright. Take care, buddy. I hope to hear from you soon.”

With that, Jeremy finally left the office, leaving Rick to himself again. The latter brushed through his curly hair with his fingers before throwing a glance at his computer screen which has turned black during his conversation with Jeremy, allowing him to see his own reflection in it. Everything was fine. This was his real self.

“Psychopathologist Proximity Stress Disorder” is what they called it when staff members experienced hallucinations. The official advice was to seek guidance from a Murkoff Success Counsellor under the pretence that there was no shame about it at all. As an executive he knew better of course – any sign of mental instability, any that could potentially impede an employee's performance, could mean a one-way ticket to the Morphogenic Engine treatment. They were there to _help_ after all.  
The last person who needed to know about his visions was Jeremy though. His friend he might have been, but Jeremy also stood higher in the corporate pyramid than Rick. One could never be careful enough at Murkoff. Yet, he would be lying to himself if he said that he did not have a bad feeling that Jeremy might have figured out that _something_ was wrong. It has become increasingly more difficult to stifle his stress with all these images occurring more frequently.

But that shouldn't be too bad though, right? Rick was not just some lowly orderly or security guard – Murkoff cannon fodder – but the executive of the Research and Development department and head of Business Development. This should mean something. They could not dispose of him so easily. And what should they do so for? He was good at his job and genuinely dedicated to the company – and that's what mattered in the end.

He drummed his fingers on his desk. The information Jeremy had shared with him was indeed interesting. However, it also brought up another matter – one he really would not have ever wanted to deal with. His underlings could be a real pain in the ass. Most of the time reassigning or firing them did the trick when they posed a danger or simple inconvenience to the business. But this particular case was of a more... personal nature.

“Denise!” he called out, waiting for a response. 

His assistant came out of the adjacent room and entered his office. “Yes, Sir?”

“Could you find and bring Miss Haas here?”

Denise nodded and left the office to deal with her task immediately.

He could not help but remember single instances in which visitors to his office inquired about Denise's presumed pregnancy. She did indeed look as though she was a few months in. However, Denise always retorted with denial even when it caused confusion in some people.  
Psychosomatic pregnancies... could she know? 

Well, regardless, he had something more important to take care of right now. And so he waited for his assistant to return, all the while looking at the black screen of his computer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random tidbits of additional info:  
> 1\. Mr. Langen is the name of the tortured executive talking to Miles after the finger-cutting scene in the game as is revealed by some cut dialogue. The comic relief "jello" scene references one of Trager's cut lines.  
> 2\. In fact, the entire scene is a bit inspired by and references another game. Cookies for the one who can guess it.  
> 3\. I took a few liberties concerning the timeline as far as female employees are concerned since the source material (game and comic) contradicts itself. I tried to come up with a compromise that brings facts in order.  
> 


	2. Time is short

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michelle Haas finds herself on the horns of a dilemma, desperately searching for a way out of her situation. However, she does not have much time left until Rick will eventually go through with his threat to fire her, thus putting her and her child's very well-being in grave danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I want to be perfectly honest, there are quite a few things about the comic story that I find... odd. Were it up to me, I would have considered creating my own version of what had happened to Trager, but well... sledgehammer to canon is not really my modus operandi, even when said canon is not entirely consistent itself. You gotta work with what is given and make the best of it.  
> 

A knock sounded briefly on the door before it opened and two women entered the office, one following the other. Denise stepped to the side, remaining in a corner while the second woman, Michelle Haas, slowly approached the desk. It was very obvious that she was desperately trying to hide her anxiety. She did not even begin to consider sitting down, looking at her boss the whole time, evidently afraid of what he had to say. She had no need to sit down in any case.

“Thank you, Denise,” Rick told his assistant, his voice having taken on a more formal tone. “Could you please leave us for a few minutes? I'll call you when we're done.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Denise answered. She instantly left the office again. 

A suffocating silence prevailed for a while with Rick having turned his full attention to Michelle. The latter shortly turned around to the closing door before looking at him again. However, she had to convince herself to look him directly in the eyes like a submissive animal before a higher-ranked individual. 

A pretty thing she had been – lovely red hair, which was now put up in a bun, and hazel eyes revealing an intelligent and attentive person behind them. But now she has become nothing more than a huge nuisance to him. He should have fired her much sooner, he reckoned, but doing so would have just raised suspicion among his peers. Even at Murkoff. Firing employees because of personal reasons was not the same as firing them because they were simply and officially unneeded. Thus he had given her a warning for the sake of _fairness_. If she did not oblige, she would be the one to blame at the end. 

“I don't know whether I've made myself clear enough,” he started, sternly looking at the pregnant woman, crossing his arms before his chest. “But I see that you still haven't done what I told you to do. Time's gettin' a little short, isn't it? When are you going to get rid of it finally?”

“I... I've told you before, Rick, I... won't,” Michelle retorted silently, shaking her head slowly. “Don't try to coerce me because you refuse to take responsibility.”

Rick kept staring at her, feeling how his annoyance has only increased. What a fucking headache! Normally he could appreciate a certain stubbornness and boldness in his employees – a will to pull through in the face of any adversity faced. At least he had to give her _that_. Right now, however, her stubbornness caused nothing but trouble.  
He could not even comprehend why she was so insistent on keeping that child in the first place. _His_ child, he thought unwillingly. Why was she so willing to keep it even if it meant her entire future? What was she expecting to come out of this? 

“I'm going to repeat myself again, and you better listen,” Rick stated, trying not to let his agitation take over. “It's either your job or the child. If you don't get rid of it soon, I _will_ fire you. And you might well imagine how difficult it will be for you to get a new job. Consider your decision well.”

The woman breathed in heavily, unable to respond. Her skin has turned as white as chalk. Her lips quivered, but nothing came out of her.  
Blood slowly ran down her legs from somewhere underneath her long pink dress, beginning to pool on the parquet. Something soft, heavy, and red suddenly fell on the floor with a disgusting splosh. Although he knew he shouldn't, Rick took a closer glance at this thing. He was by no means an expert, but it looked a lot like a uterus to him. One infested by a tumour. _She was going to die_. He felt nauseous.

He sighed and promptly opened the right upper drawer of his desk, taking out a pamphlet for an abortion clinic which he then placed on his desk in a way that Michelle could read it.

“I'm giving you time until the end of the sixth month,” he declared. “Be glad that I'm feeling generous right now. I could have fired you earlier, mind you. You should know what's good for you.” 

Michelle looked down at the pamphlet for a few seconds before settling her eyes on Rick again.  
“I think I do,” was all that she said, betraying no emotion this time.

“I sure do hope so. Keep my words well in mind. You are dismissed.” He dismissively waved his hand, not wanting to see her any more.

The woman did not reply anything to this, merely casting another glance at the pamphlet before turning around and leaving the office at last.  
Something told him that she was not going to follow his order, no matter how much he insisted. He rubbed his temples, trying to calm himself down. It was her decision. She was going to carry the consequences for it. He did not need to as well. The last damned thing he needed in his life was some snotty rugrat conceived from some short-lived fling with one of his employees that has never meant to become anything even remotely serious in the first place nonetheless. Yet here he was, having to deal with this entirely unnecessary bullshit. This could be resolved so easily though. Why did she have to make things difficult for him? Just how much would this impede his career? If she just listened to him, she would only be better off herself.

That hallucination...

Rick put the pamphlet in his briefcase before he stood up from his swivel chair and exited his office himself, heading for the men's restroom. There he made sure that no one beside him was inside prior to approaching one of the sinks. The sinks, like the rest of the restroom, seemed clean and kept at top condition. However, a single crack traversed the mirror right in front of him, standing out among the tidiness. He groaned. Just who the hell was responsible for this?!  
He noticed that his skin has paled. He could not deny that he did not feel well today. Perhaps he had to call in sick after all. A day or two of absence would not attract much attention. There were more than enough underlings to shift his tasks to. No one would question him... 

No. There was no need to. He could pull through. He turned on the tab and splashed some cold water on his face. He was no quitter.

* * *

When Denise had appeared and approached her of all people, Michelle could feel her heart rate increasing rapidly. She had tried to avoid her boss as much as possible and whenever she could ever since he had voiced his threat for the first time. It had worked for a certain while, but she could never outrun time. She knew very well that he would eventually go through with his threat. He would not hesitate even one bit once her time was over.  
So when she had entered the office and had to hear him reinforce his warning once again, she felt as though the entire world came crashing down on her. He had imposed a burden on her and now she had to suffer for it.

Had she known what situation she would get into working for Murkoff, she would have never accepted this job in the first place. Anywhere else she would have been more secure. She could not tell anyone here for she would break her non-disclosure agreement. She was not even able to tell her own family about this. While official Murkoff policy said it would protect any employee sending complaints, she knew that actual, unofficial Murkoff policy involved, first and foremost, personal ruination. So no matter what she did, she would end up getting fired. If not by Rick, then some other superior who would prefer to sweep the entire affair under the rug rather than deal with it appropriately. After all, what was she to this giant of a company? 

It was true that her workplace was not exactly the most affable one – secrecy and disrespect ran rampant among the ranks. It was certainly not one of the better places to be employed in. It was a place that required to cut almost any connection to family and friends due to strict security protocol.  
What happens at Murkoff stays at Murkoff – this was how it all worked. Her security rank allowed her to know that there was a very good reason for this. A good reason for Murkoff at least.  
However, in the end, she ended up accepting her workplace. It allowed her to afford living. She had to stick with it. In addition, she had a baby to worry about now. 

Michelle sighed, putting her hands over her belly in a protective manner. The child's conception might have been completely unintentional and unwanted, and its father might have been a callous prick, but it was _her_ child as well. Nothing of this was its fault; it should not have to die. It might not be receiving any acceptance and love from its father and would not ever, but she could make up for it, taking good care of the child. Nurture it with all the love a mother could give. She would promise it.

But for this, she really needed to keep her work. Otherwise...

Deliberate abortions until the twenty-sixth week was what Colorado law allowed. Anything beyond that time would require a dire medical reason. Not that that should concern her. She was not going to falter and give in. There had to be some way to get out of this mess. She did not have much time left though.

Since she could not tell anyone, she had to handle it all on her own. Just how? Just what could she, some employee working in I.T., do against one of the executives? Her influence was nothing compared to them. 

Only one thing became certain and crystal clear to her: Richard Trager had to go.

Via reassignment or termination, she did not care. She needed him gone. Only this way could she keep her job and raise the baby.  
Surely he could be replaced by someone else. Murkoff was fond of replacing people whenever it suited the company. There needed to be some dirt on him; something that would put him in a more negative light, raising and directing suspicion towards him.  
Install micro cameras, collect any potentially relevant, revealing footage, record any suspicious dialogue. Hide anything that could possibly be traced back to her. On a sheer technical level, this was all within her capabilities. But Murkoff was particularly finicky about security. Any wrong move, and she would pay greatly for her mistake. Perhaps not by “mysteriously” disappearing like some other employees had, only male ones for some reason, but her efforts would still all go to waste.

Michelle looked at the small greetings card on her computer desk in front of her monitor. All happy, cute, and bright, wishing her the best of wishes for herself and the incoming baby. A nice little gesture from one of her workers, Waylon Park. One of the friendlier faces around even though she could clearly tell that he was slowly becoming more aloof and distrustful of what was going on around him. How long will _he_ be keeping to himself, she wondered? She could tell that he was not made for this place. Still, he has always accomplished his tasks well so far.

She could not help but smile a little as she kept staring at the little card, though that smile was interlaced with sorrow. Of course her pregnancy had not gone unnoticed – it would be very difficult to hide at this point anyway; not that she had ever tried to. Thankfully none of her co-workers has ever inquired about the origin of the child. It was not like she was close to any of them in the first place. Everyone had just accepted her state as a fact. With the rise of employee pregnancy as of late, it did not seem like a surprise at all. 

Her sight shifted to her monitor. A small window has appeared, reminding her to restart her computer to finish some important security updates.

Security...

The executive of the Research and Development department had truly decided to make cuts to the company's security budget. All in the name of profit and curbing costs. A questionable endeavour, she had figured, one that could put patients and staff alike in unnecessary and grave danger. If anything went awry as a result of failing and downright missing security measures, it could certainly cost the company even more than the measures themselves. Perhaps it could even attract unneeded outside attention. And Murkoff did not like unneeded outside attention. Nor failures in security...

She knew what she would do now. This was her only hope to find a way out. If it did not work... She swallowed, trying not to think of the worst case scenario. It had to work.  
She took her bag with her old laptop in it, stood up, and left her working room, acting as inconspicuously as she could. This must work out perfectly, there was no other choice. 

She was not going to quit.


	3. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anonymous complaint has attracted the attention of Murkoff. Pauline Glick and Paul Marion, Insurance Mitigation officers, are tasked with finding out what lies behind the email and neutralizing any potential threat to the company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of the second issue of the comic, basically, with small cameos from Chris and Billy.

Black on white, the letters stood unmistakeably on the computer screen. Another threatening email has evoked the attention of Murkoff. Another case for the Mitigation officers to solve.  
This particular email has been sent to Human Resources, containing a complaint about the asylum's alleged abysmal state that could potentially attract the attention of OSHA, written by an anonymous originator.  
Normally, Murkoff had never truly faced trouble trying to uncover the identity of any moles and whistleblowers having chosen to remain anonymous in some vain attempt to evade attention, being the world's leading supplier of biometric security. However, this time, the sender of the email has apparently taken great measures to cover their tracks. Whoever it was, they surely knew what they were doing.

Pauline knew a veiled threat when she saw one. This was her speciality. They needed to find out whether there were any litigious dangers to this case or whether the claims were merely moot. In any case, anyone that threatened the company needed to be silenced as soon as possible.

The first step she and her partner Paul Marion undertook was to check all logs at the asylum that could potentially open a trace to the sender. Unfortunately, nothing of interest could be found so far. Just what was Murkoff so intent on hiding?  
Perhaps Pauline ought to pay a visit to the lower levels of the building. Paul may not have had the security clearance to enter those parts, but he seemed occupied enough with the logs. He did not need to know everything anyway. Security measures had to be preserved, especially before a soft heart such as himself.

“I'm going to have a look around,” Pauline informed her partner while he was still searching, leaving the room. 

Her way promptly led her to an old elevator, one that was closely guarded by heavily-armed and armoured mercenaries. Their helmets prevented her from seeing their faces. They did not say a word to her, merely motioning her to stop to check her security status. After a scan of her iris and her security card, she was finally allowed to proceed to the elevator that would take her one hundred and twenty two feet down below the ground. It was not a place she had ever visited often so most of what was going on on the basement level remained a secret to her as well. Not that she had ever had dire reasons to. She could not deny that she felt great curiosity though.

And she could not deny that she was utterly astounded by what she had observed there.

Pauline halted before a large glass pane separating the containment room from the hallway. Even though the name tag on it clearly spelled “Chris Walker” in all capital letters, she could barely recognize the human being that stood right behind the glass.  
If that... thing could even be referred to as a human being in the first place at this point.

Chris might have been already burly when they had brought him here themselves, but whatever was done to him seemed to have only added to his size. His features contorted into a feral snarl. Blood splatters on his arms and chest completed the disquieting appearance. Whether it was Chris' own blood or somebody else's Pauline did not know. Perhaps for the better.

“Impressive, am I right?” a male voice suddenly interrupted her thoughts.

She immediately turned to its source, coming face to face with a black-haired man dressed in a striped black suit. His blue eyes revealed a sliver of amusement in them. 

“Jeremy Blaire, Executive Vice President of Global Project Development,” the man introduced himself, smiling, stretching his hand out to her. Pauline reluctantly took it.

However, before Pauline could introduce herself, Mister Blaire continued, “And you're Pauline Glick, Insurance Mitigation department.”

Pauline stared at him for a short while, feeling a pinch of suspicion arising within her. How did he know who she was?

“I don't remember us being introduced,” she replied coldly. 

Jeremy Blaire's smile widened into a grin. 

“I try to stay well-informed.” 

Pauline briefly shifted her eyes to Chris, who still seemed to be looking in their direction, before focusing on Mister Blaire again.

“You all have been doing some interesting work here. When we dropped this guy off two months ago, he was... human,” she commented, not trying to hide her surprise.

Mister Blaire also turned to the containment room for a short moment, examining its inmate.

“Yes, 'human',” he answered, nodding. “Not so precise a term as it used to be.” After a short pause he inquired, “Where's your partner?”

“He doesn't have the clearance to be down here,” Pauline said, turning her attention to what was going on behind the glass panels in the hallway.  
In one of the rooms behind a glass panel she could see William Hope being prepared for the Morphogenic Engine. The young man sat bound to a treatment chair, several tubes entering and exiting his body. One of the doctors looked like he was in the process of attaching yet another tube to William with several mercenaries guarding the area.  
A chilling sight, but Pauline has already gotten used to it all.

After deeming that she has seen enough, Pauline went back to the elevator and finally returned to Paul, who was still looking through the various files. Evidently, he did not find anything that could help them with their current task.

When Paul noticed Pauline entering, he immediately asked, “See anything interesting?”

That she indeed did. 

“Normal hospital stuff,” was all that she said, averting her eyes and scanning the room. She immediately changed the topic to their search. “Let's hunt. I say we start with I.T.”

If anyone could provide reliable clues about anonymous emails, I.T. seemed the most likely place. Perhaps _they_ could figure out who could have sent the threat.

* * *

Setting up an appointment with the supervisor of the I.T. section proved to be uncomplicated fortunately. Pauline and Paul sat on two chairs in an office room, waiting for Miss Haas to arrive. After a few minutes they could hear faint voices behind the door to the room, becoming louder as their source got closer. The door finally opened, a pregnant, red-haired woman dressed in a pink dress entering. She instantly turned to the two Mitigation officers, smiling.

“Thank you, Waylon. I'll let you know as soon as we're done,” she said to someone standing behind the open door. As soon as she finished her sentence, the door was closed.

“Thanks for taking the time, Miss Haas,” Pauline thanked, putting on the friendliest smile she could. “How soon are you expecting?”

Paul leaned to her, apparently quite baffled by her sudden question. 

“Jesus Christ, Glick, you never ask...” he began whispering to her, but was promptly interrupted by Miss Haas, who seemed to have heard him. 

“It's okay,” she retorted, still smiling affably. “I'm six months along.” She then shifted her attention to the reason she was called here. “You had a question about our email system?”

Paul nodded and started explaining the case at hand, telling her about the anonymous email, its content, and how its sender has covered their path well.  
“The email was sent through an onion router, bounced through several unindexed servers,” he finished his explanation.

Oddly enough, Miss Haas did not appear to hesitate in her answer as though she was certain of its truth, contrary to what Pauline and her partner might have feared. In any case, any clue was welcome at the moment. 

“I'm sure you can imagine Murkoff's rigour concerning digital security,” she began in an instant. “Anybody with access to deepweb resources would have to be from corporate.”

Corporate.. not necessarily what Pauline might have suspected. But the explanation made sense. There was no way Murkoff would ever allow any run-of-the-mill employee to access deepweb resources, at least not without immediately catching wind of it and making them accountable for their actions.  
Of course, it would be beneficial to know who ran corporate for Mount Massive and pick out the most likely person to be involved in this entire affair.  
The email mentioned cost curbing and profit taking precedence over employee and patient safety. Should this claim be really true, then taking a look at the main one responsible for financial decisions first might seem to be the best option.  
Maybe it was worth paying a visit to the head of Business Development, Richard Trager...

* * *

Paul knocked a few times on the door leading to Mister Trager's office, both Mitigation officers waiting for an answer. 

“Come in!” a cheery voice sounded from behind the door.

Pauline and Paul entered the office, closing the door behind them before examining the voice's owner. A fashion disaster of a man sat on a brown leathery swivel chair leaning comfortably back, slowly swaying from left to right and vice versa, looking at the Pauls the whole time. He wore a pink shirt unbuttoned to his collarbones with a loosely-tied blue jumper around his neck, standing in stark contrast to all the other executives the Mitigation officers had met so far. The man had dark curly hair and light brown eyes. A fancy golden watch adorned his right wrist.  
A lot could be said about his office itself as well. A set of golf clubs stood right next to the desk in the centre. Behind the man, on the wall, a picture of a sailing boat hung, as well as a poster of Richard Nixon captioned “I'm not a crook, I'm a leader”. On the right, a shelf filled with various books and some trophies could be found.

“Pauline Glick and Paul Marion, Insurance Mitigation officers,” Paul introduced her and himself. “You are Richard Trager – is this correct?”

“The one and only,” the man answered, a huge grin plastered on his face. The sort of grin that one could find on a photoshopped picture somewhere on an advertising billboard. “Feel free to take a seat.” 

Pauline and Paul accepted the invitation and seated themselves on the chairs standing in front of Mister Trager's desk. Paul held his small notepad and a pen ready.

“What can ole Rick do for ya?” Mister Trager asked, all friendly.

Once again, Paul went on to recite their task.  
“Human Resources forwarded an anonymous complaint about safety conditions at the asylum to us, giving us the task to uncover the identity of its sender and find out what's behind all this. We currently do not have any solid leads to the identity of the leak though,” he described. “Our path eventually led us to you.”

“Hey, I'm happy to help,” Mister Trager said, still grinning. “I'm a team player, and I want you guys on Team Rick.”

Before any of the Pauls could reply, he continued, “You guys want coffee? Or some kind of fancy wop drink? I can say that because I'm Italian, on my mother's side. I'm gonna have a coffee.”

Suddenly he called out to someone in the adjacent room, “Denise! Be a buddy and bring us some coffees!”

Finally Paul could find a time to bring up the original topic at hand again. “Thanks, Mister Trager, but... this complaint – I.T. is saying it would have to come from corporate.”

Mister Trager turned his attention back to the Pauls, his grin having changed into a smug smile upon hearing Paul's words.

“'Corporate', from the Latin 'corpus', also the root of 'corpse', because a corporation is a body, and any weakness is a wound to that body that must be staunched. Cauterized if necessary,” he explained.

“I couldn't agree more,” Pauline answered to that. At least there was one thing that she and Mister Trager were in one with. However, she could tell that this was not going to be an easy conversation. She could only hope that they would be finished here soon. Her intuition told her that nothing good could ever come out of this guy.

Mister Trager shifted his eyes to her, shortly looking her up and down, raising an eyebrow, before commenting, “Well, you certainly look like you know how to take care of your body.”

For once, Pauline kept silent, unsure of what to retort. In fact, she did not even know whether she ought to say anything at all. What was probably intended as a well-meant flirt ended up coming across as rather unsettling. Not to mention completely out of place.  
And so she kept staring at Mister Trager, a few seconds passing in awkward silence. Thankfully, Paul interrupted it soon enough, coughing a few times. 

“Let's stay on topic...” he said slowly, casting a brief glance at her before turning to the executive again. 

At last Mister Trager averted his eyes from her. 

“Of course,” he replied, finally returning to the main subject. “Let me ask you this: how would anybody in my department make money sending vaguely threatening emails about my department performing poorly?”

“How much have you cut the security budget?” Paul inquired, readying his pen.

“My job is minimizing expense. I'm sure you two can relate,” Mister Trager answered. “And nothing's as expensive as security. I mean, don't get me wrong, I never 'meta data' I didn't like...”

He grinned at his own joke while the Pauls merely groaned. It did not seem to bother the executive though. 

He continued, “But sometimes you gotta make cuts. I create efficiencies. That makes us all safer. Security changes with the times. Money will always be money.” 

“Interesting,” Paul mumbled, scribbling something down in his notepad. Pauline took a glance at what he wrote, curious. ' _This guy's dirty as hobo shit_ ,' the note read. The woman could not help but smirk to herself. Her partner was right of course.

“Our coffee! Thank you, dear,” Mister Trager suddenly exclaimed happily, turning to a woman in a black-and-white maid outfit who was walking into the room holding a tray with three cups of freshly-made coffee. The woman, who Pauline figured must have been the Denise Mister Trager had referred to earlier, set the tray on the desk. The pleasant smell of the coffee filled the room.  
The maid looked as though she was pregnant – perhaps in her fourth or fifth month. Interesting. The number of pregnant women has surely increased at Mount Massive lately...  
Paul seemed to have the same thought as her.

“You're expecting as well?” he asked Denise, a hint of surprise in his voice.

Denise jerked, quickly turning to Paul. 

“What? I'm not...” she stammered, blinking several times. “You think I'm pregnant?”

Paul's face began turning red as he desperately searched for words, trying to find a way to apologize for his assumption. Pauline watched for a moment, mildly amused, until the maid turned and quickly left the office. Her attention then changed back to Mister Trager again, who also seemed to have observed the awkward exchange.

As sleazy as he appeared, there wasn't anything that would arise immediate suspicion about him, at least as far as the email was concerned. A typical greedy corporate douchebag – these existed like sand on a beach at Murkoff. Nothing that Pauline had never dealt with before.  
However, something was obviously going wrong in this department, something obviously hidden. Maybe someone specifically wanted to turn their attention to Mount Massive's corporate ranks. In such an event, it would seem plausible to take a closer look at Mister Trager – find out more about what was truly going on here. 

The executive had expressed his attraction to Pauline rather openly. While she would rather prefer to spend as little time around him as possible, this could come in handy right now. She had no other choice.

“Mister Trager, forgive me for being forward” she began amicably, putting on a warm smile. “But I've never been to this part of Colorado before, and I'd love somebody to show me around.”

“You're saying...?” Mister Trager asked, confused. 

“Would you have dinner with me tonight?” she finally proposed. 

If Pauline had thought that his smile could not get any wider, she would have been mistaken. A shudder went through her, which she tried to hide of course.

“I'd love to,” the executive said, content.

Paul quickly looked at Pauline as if to inquire what all this was about. It took her only one return of the glance to quench his unspoken question. He understood in an instant, nodding.

Anything for her work...

* * *

It took three courses and a bottle of wine at a candle-lit table in a highly respected restaurant until Rick (he had insisted that she call him by his first name) eventually invited her over to his place. For the entire duration of the dinner Pauline felt as though Rick spent most of the time talking about himself while she just went along, listening more than she talked herself. Not that she minded much. She had a clear goal in her mind after all.  
To think that Rick might have chosen a vastly different career had his father not disapproved of his choice in the past. And so here they were in the end...

He drove them back to his house in his black Audi. The building itself seemed inconspicuous from the outside. However, from what Rick had told her, the rooms inside were fairly large and neatly-decorated. Once they were inside, Pauline found that he had not been lying about that. 

Rick led her to the living room, which contained a fireplace that was not burning at the moment, offering her to take a seat on one of the armchairs standing around a low glass table. He also offered her some cocaine, which she kindly turned down. Afterwards he began looking through a vitrine with various beverages, taking out a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. 

“It is an Islay, twenty-seven years old. A gift from the head of Murkoff Global H.R,” he revealed, holding the bottle before him for Pauline to see better. 

“How many fingers?” he asked with his typical grin. 

“You mentioned you have a wine cellar. I wouldn't mind something red?” Pauline suggested. She hoped that he would bite the hook.  
To her luck, he did, placing the Scotch and the two glasses back in the vitrine, taking out two wine glasses instead.

“Red wine for the lady. I'll be right back,” he said before exiting the living room.  
Pauline sat still for a few seconds until Rick's footsteps could not be heard any more. Finally. 

Standing up, she wasted no time investigating Rick's house. Hopefully she could find something of interest in here. She had to be quick about it though since she did not know how long it was going to take until the host would be back. Certainly he would not appreciate her rummaging through his stuff. 

Among Pauline's findings were Rick's internet passwords (potentially useful to know, but until she could be certain that there weren't any other, more obvious clues lying around, she had to push her thoughts back for another time), his fairly large cocaine stash, which he apparently was not so intent on downright hiding in his house, his “dirty” magazines, which mostly consisted of surgical articles (he did mention that his childhood wish had been to become a surgeon, so it did not come as a surprise), and... a pamphlet for an abortion clinic.

Abortion clinic... what business would he have with one? 

Pauline suddenly heard footsteps on the parquet becoming louder as they neared the living room. She immediately went back to the same armchair that she had been sitting on, pretending to have looked out of the window, stretching her legs a little perhaps.  
Rain had begun to pour outside, pelting against the glass. 

Rick re-entered the room with two filled wine glasses. Pauline sat back on her place while he approached her, handing her one of the glasses.

“A Chateau Gibeault, 1153,” he stated, seating himself on the armchair right next to Pauline. “Old Rick delivers every time.”

They clinked their glasses. 

“Can I ask if you have a girlfriend?” Pauline inquired, trying to sound as inconspicuously as she could. 

“I'm afraid not. I'm a team of one as they say,” Rick answered, a faint, barely-nervous smile going over his lips.

Oddly enough, he had not tried to make any move towards her even though it would have been easy to anticipate such an action. Especially now considering that he was indeed single. Why the abortion pamphlet then though...?  
In any case, Pauline started suspecting that Rick simply loved to hear himself talk to boost his own ego. 

She took a few sips from her wine. And it was then that she noticed something awfully wrong about it. A disgusting, bitter undertaste lay heavily on the back of her tongue. A taste she was already too familiar with...

 _Son of a bitch!_

Without hesitation she pulled her gun from its holster, which she had been hiding underneath her blazer the whole time, jumping to her feet, and aimed it at Rick's crotch.  
A yelp of fear escaped Rick's throat as he fell back in his seat, the wine glass he has been holding crashing to the floor, bursting. The crimson liquid tainted the beige carpet underneath them.

“You want to finish my drink for me, honey?” Pauline hissed, holding her own glass with the remaining poisoned wine out to Rick, who sat frozen on one place not daring to move or speak.

“Rohypnol? Really?” she growled, gazing at him. If looks could kill, he would have been dead already. But Pauline was not going to actually kill him. Not _yet_.

“I needed a win,” Rick stated blankly, obviously wary of the gun still pointed at him. 

“Drink it or lose your balls; I don't care,” Pauline threatened. 

He reluctantly took the glass with a shaking hand, slowly bringing it to his lips. With difficulty he drank the wine, single drops running down his chin and spilling on his shirt leaving red stains. 

“Now sleep,” she commanded. To accelerate the process she whipped Rick's head with her pistol, knocking him unconscious. His body slumped in the armchair. 

While she might have neutralized the danger, she knew that she did not have much time herself. The effects of the Rohypnol slowly began to show themselves. Just how much did that asshole put in the wine?! She needed to call Paul immediately. There was no way she would be able to get back to her own place alone. She holstered her gun.  
Reaching for her cellphone and taking it out, Pauline dialled her partner's number and waited until he would answer the call. She desperately hoped that he was not asleep yet.  
After a few seconds she finally heard the call being accepted. 

“What is it, Glick?” a tired voice sounded from the other end of the line.

“I need you to pick me up. He roofied me,” she explained. 

“Holy shit! Are you okay?” Any sign of tiredness had vanished from Paul's voice in an instant. Good. She would need him awake. As she did herself...

Her limbs began to feel heavy as did her very head. Breathing slowly became more difficult. Everything around her started to spin. If she did not find a way to keep herself awake until Paul arrived...

Then she remembered. The idea might have seemed crazy at any other time, but now she could need anything that would be able to counter the drowsiness. 

“I'm gonna be...” Pauline replied, approaching the table where she had found the cocaine stash, leaning on it exhausted. She hung up, placing her phone back in her blazer pocket. She really did not want to have to do this...

The drug's effects kicked in after a few minutes. Her drowsiness was replaced with something that could be described as euphoria, her alertness rising. Thought after thought flooded her mind. 

She had to think. So much had happened. Prior to the incident with the spiked wine, Pauline had found out that Rick was not in any relationship (' _such a surprise_ ,' she mused with irony). And yet... she had found a pamphlet for an abortion clinic. Just what would he need one for? Unless there was someone who did carry a child of his, one that he would not want to have... Perhaps some employee or anyone he knew, really.

The email... someone undoubtedly wished to pull attention to Mount Massive, mentioning its security state, which then again was highly influenced by the prick that was now sleeping deeply in the living room.  
' _The email would have to come from corporate_ ,' the words resounded in Pauline's head. Someone had wanted them to confront one of the leading instances.  
Who would...? 

Then it all clicked to her, all puzzle pieces having found their place. She knew exactly who created the email now.

The Mitigation officer quickly entered the room where she had found the abortion pamphlet, taking it. She immediately left the building, not wishing to spend any more time there. At least they did not have to worry about the rogue executive now.

A few minutes passed until Pauline could finally see Paul's car approaching. Her partner halted right next to her, promptly exiting his car, a worried look on his face. Upon seeing Pauline's peculiar state, his sentiments only fortified. 

“Glick, are you...?” he started, but was interrupted by her.

“I'm great!” she exclaimed. “And that asshole's sleeping and don't worry about him. I found this abortion clinic pamphlet, so let's go talk to the pregnant lady. I'll tell you all about it in the car!”  
The words seemed to downright flow right out of her mouth in an endless stream. She handed the pamphlet to Paul who looked at it confused. 

Both Mitigation officers entered the car where Pauline told Paul everything he needed to know. Not wanting to lose any time, they drove to confront the person who was responsible for the leak. They knew where she lived. 

Arriving at the place, they rung the bell to the person's house until the door opened. A perturbed Michelle greeted them. 

“You're the leak, aren't you?” Paul inquired – no, _declared_ – as he held the pamphlet up for her to see.


	4. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After waking up and connecting pieces together an infuriated Rick heads for Mount Massive in a last-ditch attempt to silence Michelle and Pauline. A fatal mistake that earns him a permanent admission to the asylum.

A sharp pain in his temple made itself noticeable in an instant when he opened his eyes. He felt as though a horse was kicking him. Righting himself in his armchair, he brought a hand to his aching temple, sensing some dried blood on his skin.  


He looked around the living room, spotting a shattered glass right next to him on the carpet tainted by spilled red wine.  
The morning sun shone through the windows, painting the room in a golden hue.

Odd. He could not remember falling asleep in his living room. And why did his head hurt so bad? What happened?

Rick tried to remember. Everything seemed so fuzzy. A feeling he had know, but nevertheless, it has never been pleasant.  
Yesterday he had visitors to his office – two Insurance Mitigation officers, Paul Marion and Pauline Glick, if he was not mistaken. Something about a threatening email...  
He could remember that Pauline had asked him to show her around this part of Colorado, which he did. He took her to a restaurant before inviting her to his home. And this was where the memories began blurring. 

Pauline had seemed like a fine woman for sure, but of course he hadn't had high hopes that he would actually succeed with her. Certainly not when he considered that she had asked him out during an _investigation_. There must have been something more far-reaching behind her intentions...

Then it all came back to him. 

_Of course_ he had not hoped that he would score. Had Glick really thought that she could fool him? He had been a mere suspect to them, nothing more. Well, if she was not going to play by the rules, then why should he? Sending him to fetch some wine from his cellar had only made it easier for him to spike her drink. He had had a few pills left lying around – mostly to lull himself to deep sleep whenever he had found himself staring fully-awake at the ceiling on sleepless nights... Just this time he had opted to use them for another purpose. No one would cross his path. He could not have Glick snooping around in his affairs and possibly find a way to threaten his reputation. A gazelle entering a lion's den was bound to get eaten. Just this time...

Yet, the Mitigation officer had thwarted his plan. Naturally, she did not stick around. Neither has she sent anyone for him, as surprising as this seemed in retrospect. On the other hand... will she now tell someone at Murkoff? Will she want to ruin him in retaliation?  
She couldn't. She did not have any proof at this point. 

What had she hoped to find anyway? What could he have to do with that leak? Why would someone send an anonymous email complaining about his department of all?

A realization crept up on him. 

Still feeling a little drowsy, Rick collected all his strength to stand up and hurry over to where he had placed the pamphlet. As he had feared, it was gone. It did not take long to figure out what was going on now. He gritted his teeth, hissing.

That treacherous _bitch_! She sold him out! 

Rick had to muster all his remaining self-control not to flip the table before him over. After grabbing his keys, he dashed out of his house and towards his car. An unkindness of ravens cawed somewhere above him. There was no time to lose. He sped towards the asylum, going way above the streets' speed limit, breaking many a law. Blaring horns sounded all around him. But he did not care. He had something to resolve.

* * *

“Have you seen Miss Haas around?” Rick asked one of his employees through clenched teeth. The employee fidgeted, evidently taken aback by his boss' appearance. Fortunately, he knew his place, complying with Rick without questions.

“I believe I've... I've seen her heading to Human Resources with two other people...” the employee stammered. 

That was the confirmation that Rick had needed. Wasting no time, he immediately stormed to H.R., tearing open the door to the room where he eventually found his targets.

“Lying bitches! Both of them!” he exclaimed.

Everyone sitting inside of the room – the two Mitigation officers, Jeremy Blaire, and Michelle – turned towards him, startled by his bursting in. Whatever their conversation had been, it had now come to an end.

“You're too late, Rick! They know everything!” Michelle said, tears running down her reddened face, her voice hoarse from grief. 

“You can't prove anything,” Rick retorted sharply, turning his full attention to her. “You can't...”

Hot, boiling rage filled him, erasing any last shred of common sense he might have had at the moment. He grabbed a pair of large scissors that had been lying on Jeremy's desk and rammed them full force into Michelle's body, blood spraying and coating his hand.

“YOU DON'T HAVE PROOF!” he roared. Michelle screamed and crashed from her chair onto the floor.

A lot happened afterwards at the same time it seemed. Someone put Rick in a firm choke hold from behind, wrestling him to the ground. The scissors he still held grazed his thigh, though Rick could barely feel them right now. 

“Marion, go take care of Miss Haas! I'll handle him!” Pauline's voice sounded from behind. The weight over Rick loosened, soon replaced by someone lighter. Pauline attempted to subdue him. Rick managed to turn on his back before she could do so, getting a better sight of her. In a last-ditch attempt he swung the scissors again. She evaded the assault and grabbed his hair, pulling it somewhere. A click could be heard. 

Pain. Something much stronger began to pull at his hair, pull it right out of his scalp. The more Rick tried to struggle, the more it hurt. It felt as though his entire scalp was set on fire. Something warm ran down the back of his neck. He shrieked.

It all ended as fast as it had happened. For how long he lay on the floor, unmoving, he did not know. It seemed like an eternity. Whispers and footsteps of people entering and leaving was all he could perceive. That and agony. 

Silence.

After a long while someone sighed. “This was reckless. In fact, it was almost _insane_ ,” a man spoke, tasting each word on his tongue like a fine champagne. Jeremy. 

“Miss Glick, what would you suggest we do with our friend here? It seems he has forgotten his place,” he continued. “Perhaps some... therapy would do him good.”

What?

“You're reading my mind, Mister Blaire,” Pauline's voice sounded from above him. He could basically hear her sneer. 

A minute or two passed until Rick heard how the door was slammed open again, several heavy footsteps sounding around him. Security guards?

“Officers, please take care of Mister Trager here. It looks like he unfortunately has an undiagnosed mental illness we have missed before, making him... unfit to work here. If you catch my drift,” Jeremy declared.

Someone violently yanked Rick up by his arms, firmly holding him. The executive (he still was one, right?) dared to look up, his eyes meeting Jeremy's cold blue ones. The other man smiled upon the eye contact. 

“J-jer...” Rick began, uncertainty growing inside of him. What was going on? “You... You aren't serious, are you? Jer!”

“Don't worry, Mister Trager. We only want to help you. You will get back on track in no time,” Jeremy answered, smiling his false smile. As false as everything else had been about him.

Rick struggled against the firm hold on his arms. A well-aimed kick to his solar plexus made him reconsider immediately as he doubled over, the air knocked out of his lungs. 

This could not be happening. 

“Now get him out of here and take him to the basement,” Jeremy commanded the guards. “I have to take care of some paperwork.”

The security guards holding Rick began pulling him backwards out of the room. 

“No. _No!_ You _can't!_ I'm an executive for fuck's sake! You can't do this to me!” he started yelling, more out of desperation than anger. 

Jeremy and Pauline merely watched in silence as Rick was being dragged out of the room. 

This was a nightmare. Just another nightmare. He would wake up any moment, lying in his bed or perhaps an armchair. He would wake up and prepare himself for another day of work. This was just another blood dream. He would be okay. He was an executive. This could never really happen to him. He was not insane. 

However, the still persisting pain made it quite clear that all this has become his reality. And every step brought him closer to the basement level. The level where patients had been sent. Most of whom had never returned.

* * *

Everything between the incident at H.R. and now felt like it had passed him like a film. Images floating before his eyes, unreal, surreal, perceived from a distance. Pushed and ordered around by the guards, mercenaries, and doctors around him like some lowly test subject. _This was no way to treat your superior._

Eventually locked into a small cell with only one stone bed, he could only wait for what was to come, pacing around until he tired himself and sat on the bed, burrowing his face in his hands. His head still burned. Perhaps, just perhaps they would let him go. This must have been a mistake. He was an executive. This could not be happening to him.

What felt like several hours passed until he could hear someone approaching the door and unlocking it. He looked up to see one of the doctors and several armed security guards enter the room with some kind of operating table. His heart hammered in his ears, almost deafening. He wanted to run. Run away from the men staring at him, away from this place. But he knew that any effort to fight would be futile. 

It took all of Rick's will to stand up, his legs feeling heavy as though someone had bound a huge weight to them. 

They made him strip. All of his possessions were taken away from him. They beckoned him to get on the operating table. Reluctantly he complied. He was tightly bound to the cold metal slab by leather straps, allowing him to move only his head. He felt so exposed and vulnerable.  
A part of him still hoped that everything was just a bad dream. He would wake up eventually. Everything spun around him like a kaleidoscope. 

Goosebumps went over his bared shivering body. The scientist pushed the table to their destination, soon accompanied by Jeremy and Pauline. Both of them looked at him, obviously entertained by the sight of him.

Had someone told him that he would be pleading for his life in such a situation just a day ago, he would have laughed. Rick would take any challenge thrown at him with pride. That was he had believed. 

But now, he could do nothing but beg as he gazed wide-eyed at the two Murkoff employees, his voice shaking.

“It's not my fault! Don't put me in! You can't! I'm a Murkoff executive! I'm one of you! _Please!_ I'm not a bad guy! It's not my fault!”

Pauline sneered, “Of course it's not your fault, Rick. You're not evil; you're _sick_. And...” 

The doctor undid the straps. He was shoved into a glass pod and restrained inside, facing a large screen. Several needles connected to tubes were jammed into his body, pricking him. Larger tubes were shoved down his throat and nose, making him want to cough. He could not though. He could not do anything any more. Something started to enter his body making him feel dazed. Horrific images began flickering before him.

_No._

“We're going to make you better,” Pauline's voice sounded, barely audible. The last thing he heard before darkness engulfed him.

* * *

An unbearable headache plagued him right when he woke up lying on what appeared to be a hospital bed. Buzzing filled his ears, static fluttering before his eyes. _It wouldn't stop._ His head felt as though it could burst any moment. 

He sat up in the bed, trying to take a look at where he had been brought this time once he found himself capable of thinking straight again. It was a patient's room with white walls and one barred window revealing dawn. A small night table with a lamp stood beside the bed. Across him, at the other end of the room, an old sink hung with a mirror above it.

At the foot of the bed Rick could spot neatly-folded clothing. _Patients'_ clothing. Realizing that he was still bare, he hesitantly grabbed the staple and put it on. It was uncomfortable, scratchy, yet better than nothing he reckoned. He wouldn't face anyone exposed. 

After standing up, he slowly went over to the sink, convincing himself to take a look in the mirror. A shudder went through him. More than half of his hair was missing, revealing a wounded scalp. His skin has paled considerably, emphasizing the dark circles beneath his eyes. Not a long time ago he could have boasted of his fit appearance, but now it seemed as though he had aged by several years within just a few hours. 

The static resurfaced, clouding his vision, buzzing in his ears. He shut his eyes, taking his head in his hands. _Make it stop._

Something _black_ stared at him, something amorphous. 

He opened his eyes, the static dissipating. Leaning on the sink, he breathed in heavily a few times. He should not be here. He did not _belong_ here. He was an executive, not some random lunatic. There must be some way to bargain his way out of this. What could they possibly gain from him in this state anyway?

His fear slowly gave way to rage. The mirror before him cracked as his fist collided with it, distorting his reflection. The anger numbed the pain in his knuckles and wrist. 

They could not do this to him! 

The noise of a key turning interrupted his thoughts, making him turn around to its source. The door opened and Jeremy entered. A few security guards could be spotted in the hallway before the door closed. 

Rick wanted to lunge at him, pummel him until that smug smile would disappear from his face. But he managed to control himself this time. He would not further dig his own grave. Not after what happened at H.R...  
Jeremy had enough sense to stay by the door and not approach Rick any further.

“Good morning, Rick. I hope you've slept well,” Jeremy greeted him, leering.

“If you've just come to taunt me, you can fuck off, _Jer_ ,” Rick growled, venom dripping from each word.

“This is no way to talk to your superior,” the other man retorted before his smile fell, his tone becoming serious. “You've just screwed yourself over there, Rick. What have you been thinking when you stormed into the office and assaulted Miss Haas? That was simply _mad_.”

“Don't tell me you suddenly care about that bitch! You would've done the same. I couldn't have her threaten my reputation over a child that was never meant to be in the first place!” Rick exclaimed. 

Then the irony hit him. He had tried to preserve his reputation, indeed. However, he had lost control and just ruined it all for himself. He got caught in his own trap.

' _It's not my fault_ ,' his own voice resounded in his head. 

“Obviously you did a horrible job at this. We have enough to cover as it is,” Jeremy said in contempt. After a short pause he continued, “Speaking of the child, remember the conversation about employee pregnancy?”

Rick remained silent, not liking where this was going. Jeremy interpreted his silence as a confirmation. 

“We found that one in three women is experiencing a false pregnancy; a result of the experiments we conduct. We are reassigning them to the other facilities right now. I've received a call from the hospital where we've brought Miss Haas. She never was pregnant. There has never been a child.”

It felt as though the walls around him could come crushing down on him any moment. Everything began spinning again.

Rick could not help but chuckle nervously. This could not be. All this for nothing. His lips quivered.

“Please, Jer, let me out. You've nothing to gain from keeping me here. I'm not insane. I promise I'll do anything if it means I can get out of here. I'm an executive. I am loyal to Murkoff; I'm not one of _them_ ,” he began pleading once more.

It must have sounded pathetic. Ridiculous. He would have laughed at himself. But nothing mattered at this point any more. 

“Is this how a former Murkoff executive is going to accept his fate?” Jeremy mused. “I would have expected better from you, Rick. You cannot bargain when you have nothing to bargain with – you of all should know this. Do not think that just because you were an executive that you were never on the radar.”

 _He had known._ They had just waited for a fuck-up, he realized. 

“Mount Massive Asylum for the criminally-insane. Some might consider that term fitting,” Jeremy stated. “I hope it was worth it. You have to understand that any loose end has to be cut. I am just following the rules.”

Rick remained silent, trying to maintain his composure. He had no desire to speak to his former friend any longer. No... Jeremy had never been his friend in the first place. Friends did not exist at Murkoff. The company was much like a large spiderweb: each spider tolerates the presence of the other until they get too close. That's when they try to devour each other.  
Had he himself been any different though? 

' _I'm not a bad guy._ '

“I thought I owe you this disclosure. It's the least I can do. I have important matters to attend to now,” Jeremy said, his smile reappearing. “Until we meet again. Or never again.”

With that he left the room at last, locking it.

Rick sat down on the bed, sighing in defeat. There was no way to get out of this. Being an executive, money... it all meant nothing. A few words, some paper and plastic did not save him from this fate in the end. A fate he had only known from small, lowly employees that had not complied. This is what he had been to Murkoff in the end – an employee. An overly expensive employee. More money would be saved by throwing him out. More money could be invested in the project. Or perhaps they would simply replace him with a better cogwheel.

Dark shapes danced before his eyes, twisting and contorting. 

The pain in his right hand from hitting the mirror resurfaced.

There was no way to get out of this. This had not been a dream. This was his reality now.


	5. Living among the dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once an executive, now thrown into the asylum as a patient, Rick tries to cope with his downfall as he finds himself powerless before that which he had so much influence on before. Meanwhile, the Morphogenic Engine treatment slowly starts to show its effects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is possible that I took some liberties with the asylum's layout to accommodate certain needs for the story.  
> I was a little unsure about Rick's characterization in this chapter since there is close to no canon source information on how he behaved during his time as a patient (but before becoming the "Doctor").  
> Still, I hope you enjoy this story.

Minutes. Hours. Days. Dawn was breaking. Dusk was falling. Time did not exist in this place. 

Rain pelted against the window – the only sound to be heard in the dark small room.  
Rick lay on his bed, gazing at the ceiling. Sleep would not come to him. He was not sure whether he wanted it to any more. Meanwhile his aching body screamed for rest.

Doctors. Infusions. Needles. Cold metal pressing against his back, restraints bound tightly to his wrists and ankles keeping him in place. This has now become a regular part of his life. Eyes once familiar staring at him with indifference and contempt. Some with amusement. He no longer had any power over them. They knew it well and relished it. 

Interesting – what sort of data could they gain from him? Would they profit from him or would he just end up as another hopeless case – a random number among many?

His eyelids felt heavy. But he could not fall asleep. He did not want to. The dreams would not cease. The static, enhanced with time and getting only worse, fluttered before his eyes. A low rumbling voice filled his ears, sounding distant and unclear like some badly-tuned radio transmission. 

_A pair of scissors tightly clutched in his fist. Blood coated his hand as the sharp blades pierced soft flesh._

_A fire burned him._

_'It's not my fault!' he yelled while the doctor shoved him into the pod, inserting tubes and needles into him. It hurt._

The memories, unwanted, resurfaced over and over again, nagging at him. What he would give to forget them, push them back into the deepest corners of his mind. 

What had he been thinking? That he could do whatever he pleased? This had been the privilege of the ones at the top. He had considered himself to be a part of the top. So much influence he had had over how things worked at this place – how would have anyone thought any differently in his position?  
Now, however, not even a single plea would be answered. He had no right to it any more. A patient did not have any rights in this place.

' _I'm not insane. I'm not one of_ them.'

' _Mount Massive Asylum for the criminally-insane. Some would consider that term fitting,_ ' Jeremy's voice resounded, a hint of mockery in its tone.

The very remembrance of Jeremy brought back Rick's anger. Why would he of all have seen it fit to throw him away, to treat him like nothing more but a nuisance to be disposed of? To think that Rick had considered him a close friend prior to this mess...  
Suddenly the idea to eviscerate Jeremy did not seem like such a gruesome one after all. _There would certainly be a high demand for pieces of him. Perhaps he could learn something from it as well_. Him and Pauline.

So Rick might have gotten ahead of himself, letting his rage cloud his common sense. He had had a career and reputation to maintain. He could not have let some employee rat him out and bring unnecessary attention to himself. They could not have fired him for this. _She_ had been the one who had to go. If that child had been more worth to her than her job...

' _There has never been a child._ '

Rick should have suspected this. The information had been given to him. The suspicion had been there. He could have just let her be and everything would have settled itself. Instead he had opted to keep to his threat. Ultimately, he had made a direct attempt at her very life. Disregarding all consequences. 

' _It's not my fault!_ '

' _I'm not a bad guy!_ '

Murkoff had to cover plenty. Certainly an attempted manslaughter would have attracted much attention. Any inconvenience had to be dealt with permanently. He had known, he had done it himself, never fearing that the same fate could sometime happen to him as well. An executive need not fear anything after all.

' _I'm one of you!_ '

' _Do not think that just because you were an executive that you were never on the radar._ '

Fool. They must have had an eye on him long before his outburst. It had been only a matter of time until someone figured out that something was not quite right with him. His stress caused by the nightmares and hallucinations could not have gone unnoticed for long. Jeremy must have seen it immediately, as close as he had been to Rick. And now...

' _I'm not insane._ '

The buzzing did not stop. Had Rick not been mad before, he would surely become so soon. Not one patient remained the same. Some had merely turned catatonic, others... He tried not to think about it. It was not like it had ever personally mattered to him. The only thing that had mattered were the numbers these patients produced.  
What would become of him now?

His eyes closed without him willing it. His exhaustion eventually took over. Abstract images swirled before him, clear and elusive at the same time, never ending. Disembodied eyes stared at him with contempt, ridiculing and mocking him. The blinding flash of a camera. A wide lifeless desert around him.

Rick fell asleep.

* * *

Light shone through the window into the room, just barely bright enough to illuminate it. The long shadows of the bars stretched across the floor. Muffled voices and steps sounded from the hallway behind the door, waking him up.

Rick knew that his room would be unlocked soon. Basic medical examinations would be carried out for every patient – himself included – just like every morning. A part of the strict asylum routine. How he hated it. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? It would be less work for them anyway.

He had woken up to bonny women in his comfortable king-size bed; woken up ready to take on the challenges each day provided. 

Now he could only hope to pass the day. Lying on the hospital bed with its hard mattress remained the only comfort he had. If he could do so, he would just stay on the bed. Stay there and do nothing. Anything would be better than the therapy...

A key turned in the keyhole. It was time. Rick sighed and sat up. He would no longer show any weakness before anyone. Not like during his admission. He would not gratify them. 

The door opened.

* * *

The clinking of dishes and voices filled the refectory. Rows of benches filled the hall where the patients sat down to eat their breakfast. 

Bland oatmeal, two slices of stale bread, some margarine and jam, an apple, and a cup of watery black coffee. Just a bare minimum to sustain the patients until lunch. Rick looked at the food with disgust. Of course he had never been expecting any gourmet dishes to be served – they had made sure to obtain the cheapest products to feed the inmates. No unnecessary expenses. All money ought to flow into the project, the one thing that mattered most and only; everything else was secondary.  
Rick had prided himself on his decisions.

The former executive took his tray and sat down on a free place at the corner of one of the benches, trying to avoid any direct eye contact with the patients. Still, there was something oddly fascinating about their appearances that made him watch them. As the head of Business Development Rick had never had a reason to stay around the patients personally for long; that was the doctors and guards' job. His task had been to ensure that the company's endeavours remained profitable. 

The therapy had clearly left its mark on the patients, one more disfigured than the other. And these were just the comparatively harmless ones. The lucky (or rather new) ones merely had some scars to show. The unluckier ones were downright missing parts.  
Failed experiments. _Variants_ they called them.

At one of the benches, Rick could spot an entire group of Variants gathered around one particular patient – Martin Archimbaud. Or _Father_ Martin as they liked to call him. A self-appointed priest worshipping the Walrider as a god – Rick was surprised that he had managed to gain a following. On the other hand, fearful, despairing people were much easier to influence; they were more likely to turn to some omnipotent deity in hopes of finding some all-solving answers to their laments. Neither could Rick deny that the nanobot swarm was an impressive thing indeed. No wonder why some delusional patients would see it as a god.

Did this cult really see salvation in this god of theirs? Did they know what they suffered for?

Rick knew too well that their prayers would remain unanswered. The only _real_ instance that ruled this place with an iron fist was money. 

Fortunately, none of the patients have caught up on his identity yet. They couldn't. Rick could suspect without a doubt that none of them would be happy to see one of those who had inflicted all this upon them. Violence directed towards staff members had not been unheard of.

And yet, Rick suddenly had an uneasy feeling that he himself was being watched the whole time...

He barely registered footsteps approaching him from behind. 

“Fancy meeting you here, Sir,” a voice sounded right behind his back.

Rick turned around to face the unknown person. One of the more unharmed patients stared at him, his chest rising and falling from deep breaths. The patient had a scar on the right side of his face, one eye glazed. He was missing all of his hair.

“I didn't expect one of _your_ kind around here. Figured you wouldn't care enough about your ' _patients_ ',” the man continued, nearly hissing the last word. “Looks like Murkoff eats their own as well though. Do you enjoy your time here?”

This was not good. How could the patient have recognized Rick? Unless...

“Do I know you?” he inquired, raising a brow, trying to remember the person before him. Various faces surfaced, hidden behind a faint static, but none of them that would fit.

“Oh, right. I couldn't expect you to recognize me with all those experiments going. Does the name 'David Annapurna' say anything to you?”

David Annapurna... The name rang a bell. A distant memory. Then Rick remembered. He had been that orderly that had asked for a reassignment and threatened to contact the press. Rick had made sure that he would not be able to do so.

Rick's eyes widened ever so slightly, barely noticeable. David seemed to have noticed the change in his expression though. A hiss escaped him.

Before Rick could retort or prepare himself for what was undoubtedly to come, the former orderly grabbed him by his collar, instantly connecting his other fist with Rick's jaw, the punch unexpectedly strong, throwing him off balance.

Rick felt how he was being dragged from his seat, barely managing to keep on his feet. The noise around them died out. David tried to throw him on the floor, but Rick would not give in so easily. Launching a counter-attack he hit the infuriated man in the face, causing him to let go of Rick. However, David promptly assaulted him once again with increased fury.

A brawl erupted which soon had both men caught up in a clinch. None let go of the other, punches and kicks being exchanged, each man hoping that the other will submit.  
Rick managed to withstand the barrage of attacks, but found that the other man was stronger and more resilient than him. A subsequent hit, a loss of balance, and he fell on the floor. David was on him immediately, pummelling him. Rick tried to shield himself from the assault and orient himself.

Didn't any of the staff see what was happening?! Or perhaps they did, but decided to draw out the events on purpose. 

For how long this went on, Rick did not know. At last the former orderly was pulled away from him, the fight coming to an abrupt end. Righting himself, Rick could see how two security guards held David in a tight grip. He could feel how blood began trickling out of his nose. His heart raced in his chest as he tried to regain his breath. 

“Sick bastard!” David yelled, glaring at Rick. 

“Calm down!” one of the guards holding him ordered. 

“Fuck you,” Rick growled to the former orderly, seething.

“You knew what they're doing to us! You threw me in here to rot! Hiding the abuse!” David continued as the guards slowly started dragging him away. “He was one of them! An executive! High-ranked Murkoff scum!”

With that, David was brought out of the refectory. 

Rick noticed that two more security guards stood beside him. The entire room had fallen silent, only the occasional murmur to be heard. No one dared to move or speak up, but he could feel how all eyes were set on him. Staring at him. 

And Rick knew that they held nothing but contempt.

* * *

Whether it was the presence of the security guards that prevented anyone from starting another conflict or something else right away, Rick was not sure. He reckoned he ought to be glad that none of the other patients had decided to confront him right after his identity had been busted.

Yet, the pain and the rage those patients harboured felt tangible. A coiled snake ready to strike at any moment. Rick would not buy into the blind illusion that the Variants would just let him be. They were merely waiting for the right moment.  
Apparently, news also seemed to travel rather fast in the asylum, even among the patients. He could still feel how eyes bore into him whenever he was around them, hearing their whispers.  
His room remained the only safe place he had now. 

Had that orderly not learned to keep silent?! Perhaps Rick ought to bring home the message in a more direct way. It was not like Murkoff cared enough about the patients' well-being. Not inwardly.  
_The simplest and fastest cure for a loose tongue was to cut it out after all. Perhaps he could even put it to better use._

 _Now, where had he placed the scalpel again?_ He looked around. _Certainly not in this room._

Shivers ran down his spine. The buzzing appeared once again, louder than before. 

_A large pair of rusty scissors in his hand. Blood coated it as the sharp blades pierced the soft flesh of the patient lying on the operating table before him. A piercing screech escaped the patient._  
_He couldn't have her ruin his career._

Rick shook his head to drive the intrusive memories away.

Memories? No. That wasn't right. 

He had been a Murkoff _executive_ , indeed. The patients' fates had been his to determine, not the other way round. They might shun him, but he did not intend to become one of them anyway. They would not break him. Murkoff might have taken away his position and everything he had owned and thrown him into the program while the patients might see it fit to unleash their anger on him, but they would not turn him into an empty shell of his self like so many of the Variants. Try as they might.

The sound of his room being unlocked and the door being opened tore Rick out of his thoughts. One of the doctors entered accompanied by two security guards.

Another interviewing session awaited him. As did the same questions. Which would beget the same answers. These fools were just wasting their time. And time was money – they should know that. Yet, as much as he wanted to tell them off, he knew that if he didn't comply, there would only be more pain.

Rick stood up, following the doctor who would bring him to one of the interrogation rooms. Perhaps he could take the opportunity to ask about the project's progress. Not that he expected that he would receive answers, not at this point any more, but perhaps they would reveal something for once, just this time. They knew very well who he was.  
He could not deny that he still felt a faint spark of curiosity, a remnant of his former occupation. _He needed to know the patients' status after all._

* * *

Had Rick known what would follow the arduous interview and the subsequent routine medical examinations, he might have considered the time with the overly-persistent doctor not so arduous after all. Even though he could not claim that being interrogated about his dreams and the story that had led to this mess in the first place (would his answers all change what had happened now anyway?) was particularly pleasant either. These interviews only brought up the worse of his memories, increasing this nagging feeling... 

In addition, the next Morphogenic Engine treatment and the therapy sessions drew closer with every second. 

And, as he had suspected, it had been only a matter of time until the patients would begin acting out on their pent-up emotions...

A push while they were preparing for the showers, a slip of the tongue – the small spark that would set the spilled fuel on fire – and he had an entire group of agitated Variants surrounding him berating the former executive for his boldness. What happened afterwards seemed to have passed him like some distant film – one that he could not stop no matter how much he wanted to. One moment Rick tried to stand up for himself, vastly outnumbered, the next he lay on the hard floor, hits coming from all sides. He could only hope that his assailants would tire or security would intervene.

From the looks of it, the first scenario occurred eventually.

Somewhere in the distance – or was it close to him? - single water drops dripped on the floor in a regular pattern, echoing through the room. The tiles felt cold against his skin. His entire body screamed in agony. Blood intermingled with the water on the floor, slowly vanishing in the nearby drain.

For what appeared to be an eternity he kept lying on the floor, unmoving, not _wanting_ to move, until someone eventually came looking for him. After dressing in his patient's clothes, Rick was taken to treat the laceration on his head and other wounds he had sustained before being brought back to his room. 

Dinner would soon follow, though any last shred of desire to partake had vanished now. Even when his stomach rumbled. And afterwards...

The static clouded his vision once again upon the very remembrance of what was to come. His head still felt as if it could burst. 

He didn't want to do this. He shouldn't have ever even been here. The realization that everything would only be getting worse hit him much harder than before. Had he just...

' _It's not my fault!_ ' 

' _You've just screwed yourself over there, Rick._ '

In the closest upper corner of his room he could see a spiderweb – has it been there before? - where two large spiders fought, one trying to sink its chelicerae into the other and entangle it.

The only way out of the conflict was to either flee or devour the other spider. His situation was not any different, except he could not decide to flee. Entangled in the spiderweb, he had to stand his ground lest he would become prey himself. However, it seemed as though all spiders had turned against him at once now. 

The previous confrontations resurfaced in his mind. Rick feared that these had been merely the beginning. He gritted his teeth, an all-too familiar feeling coming back to him.

Everything he had owned might have been lost. But he would not let them break him. Neither Murkoff, nor the patients.

They could shun him, beat him, treat him like a test subject, but they would not shatter him. The former executive had overcome any challenges he had faced before. Quitting had never been an option. 

Neither should it become one now.

* * *

Heavily breathing in and out, Rick tried to stay calm while he was being prepared for the Morphogenic Engine. 

Goosebumps went over his bare skin. The cold metal of the operating table he lay down on did nothing to help matters at all.  
The physician, clad in a thick blue hazmat suit, black gloves and heavy boots, strapped him down to the table with tight leathers straps at his wrists, ankles, and chest. The suit's hood made it difficult to recognize the person. Not that it should matter to Rick any more. There was something awfully familiar about the man's facial features though.

The clanking of some tools on a cart to his left made Rick turn his head to its source. The physician had his back turned to him, apparently holding something in his right hand. A catheter. 

After double-checking the material on the cart, he finally turned around again, approaching the operating table. He inserted the needle into Rick's left arm and secured it in its place before taking a syringe filled with some liquid unknown to Rick. However, the former executive could guess what it was. 

The physician immediately attached the syringe to the needle. 

“This will hurt a little bit,” the man said. 

Of course. Rick remembered the voice now. Andrew, the name came back to him. 

A sharp pain suddenly shot through Rick's entire arm as the substance was injected into him. Rick clenched his teeth while Andrew carefully emptied the syringe. The pain spread from his wrist to his shoulder, slowly reaching the rest of his body.  
Once the syringe was empty at last, it was detached from the catheter and the valve was closed.

Another clank. 

“I've been told about your little... lapse, Sir,” Andrew began after a short silence. 

Rick watched him, unsure of what to reply to the unexpected comment.

“Don't worry, I won't hold it against you. Though I must say it was bold of you to try and get a little, uh, inappropriate with one of the Mitigation officers,” Andrew continued betraying no emotion. “But I understand you.”

_The dust of the crushed pills slowly disappeared in the drink, leaving no visible marks of its presence. This should suffice. If she thought she had the upper hand here, she was mistaken._

He did not want to think back. 

' _It's not my fault!_ ' 

Rick wanted to retort, but found himself incapable to do so. Some inner blockade prevented him from denying these events again. There would be no use to it. 

Suddenly Andrew's face loomed right above him, the physician leaning on the operating table. Something appeared in his eyes that Rick had not noticed before.

“It's become such a sausage fest here ever since the women have been reassigned.” Andrew sighed. “But...”

It seemed as though he got even closer to Rick's face. Close enough for Rick to sense his foul breath. 

The sudden light pressure on his lower abdomen made Rick twitch. Andrew's hand rested on him for a short while before it slowly began wandering farther down.

Rick had been well-acquainted with the rumours of Andrew's little... side occupation with the patients. At the time the idea had struck him as oddly amusing: a lowly employee, who had probably felt underpaid, trying to seek some pleasure in all the dirty, unforgiving work in the basement.

Now, however, he was not sure whether he fancied the thought so much any more. 

“Keep yer dirty fingers to yourself, _Andrew_ ,” Rick growled. For a single second he felt assertive again. Had he not been bound to the table, he would and could have put Andrew back in his place. _He could have cut those same fingers off._ The sentiment dissipated soon though once he processed the situation he was in once more.

“Still bold, are we, Sir?” Andrew almost whispered into Rick's ear. “Good. It's such a refreshing change after all those lumbering lunatics. Let's see for how long you will keep up though.”

Without a second thought, Rick spat in his face as a last resort, causing the physician to pull back for a moment. For his efforts he promptly earned a hard slap across his face, the pain from the beatings returning stronger than before.

Andrew wiped over his face with his sleeve before bending over the former executive again, pressing one hand against his mouth.

“Do you really think you are still in control? I'd be careful with such thoughts if I were in your position, _Sir_ ,” Andrew spoke, relishing each word. “You should know what happens to patients that don't cooperate.”

For once Rick bit his tongue. What he would give to undo those straps right now. But he was trapped. As much as he hated to recognize this fact, he did not have any control over anything in this place. Not the employees, not even one such as Andrew, not the patients. Not even himself. 

Andrew's hand slid down on him once again. There was nothing Rick could do. He turned his head away from him, trying to focus his attention somewhere on the wall. Black bugs appeared and disappeared in many tiny holes and crevices, the sight of them making his skin crawl.  
Buzzing filled his ears. A humid, hot breath grazed the skin of his neck as the physician started whispering about all the things he wanted to do to him while he kept touching him where a filthy dirtbag like himself had no business touching him. 

' _I'm a Murkoff executive! I'm one of you!_ '

 _He watched with hidden anticipation as she began sipping the wine._

It had been a mistake. A horrible mistake. 

Perhaps they should have thrown Andrew into the program as well. But patients could not threaten to tell anyone. Even if they did, no one would bother.

The bugs began crawling onto the floor, nearing the table he was lying on.

“What's taking so long?! The patient should be in the pod already! I'm not getting paid enough to work overtime so hurry the hell up!” a voice sounded from somewhere.

Andrew pulled back at last, turning his attention to the source of the voice.

“I was a little busy here,” he stated blankly before stepping at the foot of the operating table and pushing it.

Everything would only be getting worse, Rick knew. His heart was racing as they neared the large, black machine. 

' _Don't put me in! You can't!_ '

The static appeared again, stronger than ever. The buzzing became louder. And then he saw it again – that dark amorphous something watching him with many, uncountable eyes. Something that surpassed his imagination, his very comprehension.

 _Walrider_... 

The leather straps felt heavy on his skin. 

Everything would only be getting worse. And he could not do anything about it. 

The dark amorphous thing grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention that Trager is my favourite character?


	6. Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "With time flying by and the continuous therapy his mind dwindled as did his body."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not anticipate that this chapter would turn out so long, especially the dream sequence. I considered splitting it into two parts, but could not find a way to do so without one part being too short or still maintaining sense to the "division".
> 
> I still feel as though something is amiss, but well... I do not want to get too... "physical" in the description of the events themselves. At least not any more than is needed; we are talking about Outlast after all. :P
> 
> I hope you still enjoy it though.
> 
> The numbers in the patient status report are mostly random since there is no such information given in the game. I'm also not sure how long Waylon has been at his field of work at Murkoff, but since the comic mentioned that he has taken over Michelle's place after that one incident, I decided to give him a little cameo...

_MURKOFF PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS_  
_PROJECT WALRIDER_  
_Mount Massive CO_  
_Case number: 182_  
_Patient: Richard Trager_  
_Consultation Dated: 2012.12.04_  
_Initial Date of Patient Consult: 2012.11.17_  
_Patient Age: 40_  
_Gender: Male_  
_Observing physician: Dr. Garett Snow_

_THERAPY STATUS:_

_Initial Morphogenic Engine activity at minor level. Hormone therapy can be safely progressed to the next stage. Reported dreams are congruent with MRI scans. Images are mostly of a medical nature, possibly stemming from patient's previous interest in medicine. The dreams also shift to images of betrayal and loss. Patient claims to have minimal control over his dream states as of now._

_DIAGNOSTICS:_

_Minor bronchial accumulation. Irregular NREM/REM cycles._

_INTERVIEW NOTES:_

_Trager, former executive from M.R.D., was hospitalized following an attempted manslaughter of a female Murkoff employee affected by a psychosomatic pregnancy (see documents about Morphogenic Engine effects on women for detail). When asked about the incident Trager reacts with irritation and refuses to go into detail, claiming it would not change anything about his situation anyway. Still seems to maintain an air of arrogance. Restraints do not seem to be necessary yet however._

_Trager's former occupation seems to have been discovered by the other patients. A brawl has been reported, explaining the patient's bruises. Increased security is recommended to prevent further patient aggression from occurring. The current situation is already difficult to manage as it is._

* * *

The operating table halted before one of the pods surrounding the Morphogenic Engine. The large spherical machine loomed above them, countless heavy wires entering and leaving it.  
Several mercenaries patrolled the area, armed with heavy assault rifles. Small stairs led up to the control room where several guards and scientists seemed to watch the screens inside of the room or the events around the Engine themselves.

After the straps were undone, Rick slowly stood up, trying to ignore all the eyes he felt on him. His sight shortly went to the control room while the physician started shoving him into the glass pod. Behind one of the computers he could spot another familiar face – one that stuck out like a sore thumb from the rest. He remembered the man from the I.T. section: Waylon Park. So Murkoff had found a substitute for Michelle in him. 

Who has taken over his own position now, Rick wondered.

Waylon looked up from the computer for a short moment, his eyes soon meeting Rick's. The software engineer promptly averted his attention from him, shifting it back to the computer, discomfort making itself obvious in his facial features. 

Poor bleeding heart. Rick had scoffed at such. They would never thrive in this company, more likely to be chewed and spat out. At the same time, those employees posed the biggest threat to Murkoff. It was only a matter of time and will until they considered that they have seen (and done) enough and tried to expose Murkoff's true goals. An endeavour that was always ultimately met with the same fate.

Now, however, anything that could put an end to this never-ending nightmare would be welcome. He had nothing to lose any more.

The restraints inside of the pod closed around his neck, arms, and legs, keeping him firmly in place. His nose and throat burned as the tubes were inserted into him, the process making it difficult to breathe. Needles pricked his body.  
The screen in front of him turned on, showing macabre Rorschach-like images that changed and intermingled, twisting and contorting before his eyes. The same images he had been forced to watch the first time he was put into the Engine. They made him feel ill. The buzzing fortified, becoming almost deafening. Rumbling mixed into it, reminiscent of a grotesque mockery of a human voice. It _spoke_ , but he could not discern its words. 

A searing pain started spreading throughout his entire body as various substances flowed into him. At the same time, drowsiness began overtaking him – he would fall asleep any moment. He did not want to. However, no matter how much he wanted to keep himself awake, he could not. His head felt heavy.  
The sight of a dark skeleton distorted in impossible, unnatural ways was the last thing he registered on the screen before his eyes eventually closed.

* * *

_Another letter was stamped and put onto the staple of letters ready to be sent to his left on his desk. His tongue felt sore from all that licking. It would not be a bad idea to perhaps invest in a stamp sponge. Alternatively, he could consider borrowing one of his patients' tongue for this – no cent would need to be spent and he could quiet the more annoying, demanding patients. Yes, perhaps the latter would be the more advantageous choice indeed._

_But Rick was done for today. Only one final check-up of the hospital stood between him and the weekend. He had been looking forward to the next golfing session with his friend the whole week. Tomorrow he would make the drive again and gain some well-deserved rest at last._

_The chief surgeon stood up from his desk and left his office, the smell of disinfectant hitting his nose as he entered the hallway. Around late evening the hospital seemed eerily-quiet, the silence only interrupted by the occasional screech of shoes against the hard floor and the rustling of papers, sometimes whispers._

_Nurses entered and left the patients' rooms, carrying whatever equipment they needed for the cases. Even at this time the red lights above the doors occasionally flared up – some for serious troubles, most for minor inconveniences. Rick knew that his employees would handle everything to their best avail._

_Slowly wandering the hallways, Rick soon came across the dark and empty waiting room, chairs neatly arranged in front of the walls that had numerous medical posters and even some children's drawings hanging on them. The large window on the other side of the room opened a nice view on the courtyard and its beautiful fountain illuminated by the few old-fashioned street lamps around it._

_Perhaps Rick ought to head for the roof for a moment and take in the whole view of the mountains and the facility._

_Just when he wanted to approach the old elevator that would lead him to his new destination, an odd noise reached his ears. A low humming, melodious and strangely soothing akin to a lullaby. It came from the waiting room. Taking a peek at the room again, Rick noticed a small, dark shape against the little light that shone into the room from outside that seemed to sit at one of the tables in the centre. Just when Rick tried to identify the bizarre figure that he knew had not been there before, it suddenly dissipated into a dark mist, vanishing._

_Strange._

_The surgeon decided not to investigate further though, merely more convinced that he could use the little trip to the roof._

_The elevator creaked as it stopped on his level and opened its gate. Rick entered and pressed the uppermost button. Once the gate closed and the elevator was set in motion, he could feel every rattle of the cabin. It might have been time to modernise it, but as long as it worked, Rick figured that there was no need to invest in an overhaul just yet. Still, he could not deny that he felt just a little uneasy inside of the elevator._

_Finally reaching the desired level, Rick wasted no time getting to the roof. When he opened the door to it, the cold mountain air hit him in an instant causing goosebumps to appear on his thin skin. Rick stepped outside, approaching one of the roof's borders, his grey shoulder-length hair slightly blowing in the wind._

_A few lights shone from single windows of the huge building complex and the street lamps below. On the horizon the mountain tops rose, dark against the dusk colouring the sky in a dark orange hue. A forest spread behind the entrance gates with one serpentine street curving through it. There was an odd, haunting beauty to the scenery that Rick could not describe in words. He inhaled the fresh air, feeling a wave of calm washing over him. His eyes closed as he relished the moment. He could not have chosen a better career or workplace. This was his domain, he felt. He truly belonged to this place._

_The sudden squeak of the door to the roof being opened broke his tranquillity. The surgeon turned around to spot one of the nurses looking around and eventually settling his eyes on him. The nurse's eyebrows were raised, a hint of worry detectable in his features._

_“Doctor Trager? I apologize for the intrusion, but we're having problems with one of the patients and need your help. He's acting up again,” the nurse spoke hastily as if afraid of the surgeon's judgement._

_Rick sighed. So much for tranquillity. Not that it was out of the ordinary though. His patients... needed special attention after all. Mount Massive occupied itself with the more peculiar cases._

_The surgeon followed the nurse down to the hospital's hallways again, eventually led to one of the patient's rooms._

_In the room he could not help but cast a glance at the cracked mirror hanging above the single basin inside. He could have sworn that it had not been this damaged the last time he had visited this particular patient._

_Shelves aligned at the wall to his right above the drawers containing various medical equipment, several glass jars arranged on them all filled with formaldehyde and various conserved body parts Rick had collected over his time at the hospital. He believed in the simpler and, more importantly, cheaper methods to do away with his patients' afflictions. He believed in efficiency._

_Yet, even though the surgeon had prided himself on his collection, the eyes he had taken from prying patients, which were now inside of some of these jars, still seemed to watch him,_ stare _at him. No matter that their original owners were long gone already._  
_With every step Rick took these eyes seemed to follow him, knowing and_ aware. _Still mocking him. If he could, he would have gotten rid of them, but as long as no one showed interest in acquiring them, he had to keep them. He could not know whether maybe someday a customer would inquire about eyes._

 _Anyhow, the focus was now on the patient. Rick had forgotten his name – if the patient had ever even given his name in the first place._

_The patient yanked violently at the restraints that bound him to his hospital bed, a loud rattling filling the room. The needle connected to the IV standing beside the bed hung down, evidently detached from the patient, single drops of the saline liquid dripping on the floor. Blood tainted the mattress under the patient's arm which had the needle attached before likely._

_“You can't do this to me! Let me go! You have no reason to keep me here!” the patient yelled among various obscenities, thrashing around in a vain attempt to escape his shackles._

_“I'm afraid that it's still too soon to let you go, Mister. We've not found a viable cure for your sickness yet,” Rick explained, smiling and nearing the bed. “But fret not. You're in safe hands with me.”_

_His voice took on a lower, nigh menacing note upon the last sentence._

_The patient's thrashing turned into shaking as the man stared up at Rick with wide light-brown eyes, his breathing ragged._

_The patient must have been quite the handsome type before he had to be committed to the hospital, Rick noted. The shaggy dark hair, grown to about the same length as Rick's own, suggested it must have been quite voluminous and curly once. It reminded Rick of someone..._

_“Please, don't. I'm not a patient. I'm not meant to be one,” the patient continued pleading, his voice having turned hoarse._

_“Oh, hush now. Perhaps you'd be out sooner if ya quit acting up so often,” Rick retorted. Of course they would not let the patient off the hook in any case. Everyone admitted to this hospital became a permanent case._

_Rick went over to the drawers, opening one of them and taking a syringe out which was already filled with the liquid he needed._

_“Fortunately, I have somethin' to soothe yer nerves a little.”_

_He returned to the patient who kept gazing at him, his pupils dilated so far that his eyes appeared almost black by now. The patient started yanking at his chains again, more desperately than before._

_“No... No! You can't!” he yelled._

_Yes, Rick could swear that he was reminded of something the whole time. Some half-forgotten memory he failed to grasp?_

_Suddenly the surgeon's smile fell from his face. His brows furrowed. Rick could not help but groan, something arising within him from the dark corners of his mind._

_Maybe the time to silence this patient in a more... permanent way has come._

_The surgeon firmly grasped the patient by his jaw, turning his head in a way that would expose his neck to him. With high precision he jammed the needle into the patient, emptying the syringe into him. The twitching slowly ceased, the patient's body slumping in the bed. Not asleep just yet, but at least he could not move any more._

_Rick discarded the empty syringe before approaching the drawers once again and taking a scalpel out. The sharp blade glistened in the electric light of the room._

_Standing beside the patient's bed again, he reached for the paralysed man's lower jaw to pry his mouth open. However, Rick halted suddenly, examining the patient's features more closely now. The familiar sight of this patient awoke some sentiment within the surgeon that Rick could not describe._

_He kept staring at the man, scalpel held ready. And yet, he could not bring himself to lower it to the man's mouth._

_Why did this suddenly become so difficult for him?_

_Those eyes, the hair, the pronounced cheek bones..._

_His heart thumped in his ears. It felt as though someone had suddenly inflated a balloon in his throat, suffocating him. A biting, icy cold overtook him as a realization hit him right then and there._

_Clarity came to him, and Rick knew exactly who he had before him now._

_With one blink the scenery changed. The patient's room had disappeared, replaced by an all-consuming void surrounding him._

_The only thing that remained was the cold coming from somewhere far behind him._

_He tried to look around, but saw only inky darkness. When he tried to take a step, he found that he could not move his legs even one inch as though someone had glued them together and nailed them to the ground._

_The cold only increased with each passing second. Something crept up to him from behind, slowly and silently. It would reach him soon if he did not manage to get out._

_Suddenly a light appeared at the far end of the void in front of him. The light revealed silhouettes of unknown entities. Entities that had probably been there the entire time, peering at him with those indifferent and amused eyes._

_No. He knew them very well. He had been a part of them in fact. But now..._

_Steps resounded. When he looked at their source, he spotted the shape of a man clad in something that appeared to be a suit. The man seemed to look at him. Then Rick recognized these cold blue eyes._

_He stretched an arm out to reach the person, hoping to be pulled away from this void, this... place._

_The iciness began to hurt as it kept nearing him, already close to him. The humming returned, accompanying the cold – an inhumane sound that could impossibly stem from the man before him. The man's lips moved, curving into a barely-noticeable smile, before he turned around and walked away towards the only light._

_Rick tried to follow, but still could not take a single step. The man briefly turned around to him before he finally vanished. The light disappeared with him, leaving Rick to the all-consuming void again. Yet he could still feel the eyes peering at him._

_An icy wind engulfed him. He wanted to turn around – and then suddenly a sharp knife pierced his back, twisting._

_Afterwards, nothing._

* * *

Hours. Days. Weeks. An eternity. With time flying by and the continuous therapy his mind dwindled as did his body.

Revulsion seized him whenever he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the damaged mirror in his room and every other reflective surface he came across. What used to be massy, curly, and dark brown hair now hung dull, grey, and spider silk-thin to his shoulders. His previously-well-tended fingernails have grown long and ragged. Skin paled to an unhealthy, almost ghostly tone, having turned dry and scaly, slowly peeling off in small flakes. 

However, no matter how much he despised the sight, he would not let anyone tend to him – he would not let them take away the last amount of control he had over himself. It was already more than enough dealing with the furious patients, the doctors, and all the humiliation and _agony_ that came with them.

Eyes staring at him. Hands all over his body. Needles. Tubes. Leather straps. A blinding light.

Static. A _voice_ that no human vocal chords could have ever produced. Faint images of past times showed up behind the static, something akin to a bad television connection preventing them from ever becoming clear. Familiar faces blurred by an irremovable veil as though submerged in water. Were they memories? Rick could not tell at this point. It seemed as though he has always been here – perhaps the images were merely snippets of dreams he remembered? He experienced plenty of _those_. 

Isolation. Struggle. Pain.

Like some mangy animal he now had to fend for himself, anything that could be called a possession, his territory. As he had feared, the Variants had been far from finished with him. It was easy to develop grudges in this environment. Since they stood powerless before Murkoff's endeavours, they saw it fit to unleash all their never-ending anger and pain on him instead – the next-best allegory for their worst enemy. As though it would change anything.  
_Savages_. 

When he did not have to fear a beating, he could still at least feel their eyes on him, hear their contemptuous whispers. Sometimes they saw it fit to snatch his trays away from him during the scheduled meals. No refills were to be had either – it did not fit into the company's plans.  
Anything to reinforce the fact that he had no say in the asylum any more. The former executive had to know his current place after all. This was the price he had to pay for having belonged to those that had put them through the experiments. For his still persisting arrogance. 

Initially he had tried to withstand the unwanted approaches in the refectory, sometimes successfully, sometimes not. He got sick of it soon though. Literally. Rick did not know whether the countless substances that must be coursing through his blood by now put a large dent in his appetite. Whatever it was, his stomach began downright churning upon the sight of the food. The feeling had only increased with time until he started willingly shoving his trays to the next possible patient.

What reason would there be to sustain this hull at this point, anyway?

Apparently, some had answers to this indeed...

Just when Rick found himself approached by a group of Variants once again in the patients' social room during the little free time the patients were given – a group that obviously did not pursue any friendly intentions and seized the opportunity of no guards being around – and he prepared himself to deal with whatever trouble they had wanted to put him in, standing up from the chair he had been sitting on, a voice averted their attention from the former executive. A voice Rick recognized.

“Please, my children. There is no need for this,” it spoke, an oddly soothing undertone clinging to it. Ah, yes, 'Father' Martin.

“But Father, do you know what he used to be? He was a part of Murkoff; one of their top dogs – they're the ones that...” one of the patients replied, turning to the priest.

Rick could not see the man as the group before him blocked his view. However, all attention was now on Father Martin. 

“He has been sent to be among us now. His sins are to be judged before our Lord,” Father Martin spoke, interrupting the patient, still maintaining the same calm tone. “If he is here, I'm certain our Lord has plans for him.”

Oh, so this was how he perceived it? 

“Please stand aside. I wish to talk to him,” the self-appointed priest continued. 

And just with this statement, the group slowly disbanded in fact, some of the Variants throwing one last glance at the former executive. A group of faithful dogs listening to their owner's commands without question. 

Intriguing, in a most abnormal way. 

Now that Rick did not have an entire group of men standing around him, he could finally examine Father Martin more closely. 

A chubby, bald older man with pasty skin, slightly smaller than Rick. The wannabe priest, like all patients, wore his patient's clothes. His green eyes, ever watchful it seemed, had an uncanny, if not downright insane look to them. As though his mind was not entirely _here_.

Father Martin turned his attention to Rick, nearing him. The former executive did not know whether he fancied the idea of talking to a religious fanatic. He could imagine well enough that the priest would likely try to proselytize him like he had managed with so many other patients. 

Rick's... own faiths stood solid and unchangeable, based on cold, hard, and concrete facts, however. No matter the circumstances.

Rick sighed. At the very least he got rid of the group – even if not by his own hands. _Too bad that he could not obtain any proper medical instruments just yet. Without his tools the surgeon had only his tongue and his bare hands to rely on. He felt incomplete. Perhaps he should snatch some from those other doctors when they weren't looking. All these patients needed special attention that none of Murkoff's bastards could ever provide properly, as shortsighted and unthinking as they were._

“To what do I owe this honour?” Rick began, crossing his arms before his chest, trying to ignore the intrusive thoughts, a chill running down his spine. “I can tell ya right now already that if ya try to win me over, you're just wasting your time, buddy.”

“You might not see it yet, but with time you shall understand. The Lord has given you a chance for salvation by sending you here,” Father Martin retorted, unaffected by Rick's demeanour.

“Salvation?” Rick scoffed, feeling something boiling up inside of him suddenly. A creeping sentiment slowly wrapping its sharp claws around his heart. His chest rose and fell more heavily than before. “I got kicked down here because Murkoff needed to get me out of the picture. That's all there is to it.”

 _A threat. Dust. A pair of large scissors. Blood._

' _It's not my fault!_ '

 _Icy, blue eyes looked at him with amusement._

_A cold, hard tile floor beneath him, his body screaming in agony. Anger and pain felt tangible in the air._

The Engine. 

“There's no God. And if there is, he has abandoned this place a long time ago,” Rick went on. “Money came in his stead.” His lips curved into a false, forced mocking smile. “Tell me, buddy, what God would allow all this to happen? Shouldn't he love all of his 'children'?”

 _Innumerable eyes glared down at him. Buzzing filled his ears. A voice tried to speak to him, low and vibrating – this inhumane noise that would be forever burned into his brain._

“There is no way to heaven but by the cross. Our suffering is the Lord's way to test our resolve. Through our suffering we shall be prepared for our Lord's grace and come out stronger than ever before,” Father Martin replied, obviously convinced of his own words, determination mixing into his voice. “Repent, and you too shall earn salvation.”

Rick breathed out. For all he knew, he has already been cast down to hell. 

“If that's how it is, ya can tell yer 'God' that he's a vicious cunt.” Rick snorted. With that, he turned around and distanced himself from the makeshift priest. He had heard enough already of this bullshit preaching. It had never interested him in the past, and it certainly did not interest him right now. 

“One day you will see the truth,” Father Martin's voice sounded behind him as Rick headed to the door, trying to ignore the other man.

* * *

Father Martin saw a duty to spread some gospel and a path to salvation for the patients in the project. Murkoff had a much simpler and straightforward way of seeing: a large well of profit. Profit that made the asylum patients' torment a warranted sacrifice.  
Rick knew it better than anyone else.

What value did his own inadvertent sacrifice have, though? 

Throughout time it seemed as though Murkoff has gained an increasing interest in him... Perhaps they just gained some sort of extra satisfaction from their attempts at breaking their former executive. No guilt involved – after all, he had inflicted all this upon himself anyway.

' _I'm one of you!_ '

He had decided where the money flowed. Decided what was most profitable. Now he had a chance to see the effects front row.

All because he could not keep himself under control. 

' _I'm not a bad guy! It's not my fault!_ '

On lucky days the therapy did not differ much from what one would expect from a proper psychiatric treatment. A brief breath of fresh air. The reputation as a charitable organisation had to be maintained after all. A satin veil hiding the grisly, rotten truth, preventing most outsiders from taking a peek at what lay underneath it. Outsiders – including all the orderlies and security guards not privy to the real therapy goals.

Talks with the doctors, monitored recreational activities – the only times Rick felt a fading sense of normalcy in this place.

Since these endeavours carried no promises, however, they were short-lived. Anything that would prove to be a waste of resources was condemned to be cancelled sooner or later. The _real_ therapy required the most attention.

Other days Rick found himself bound to an interrogation chair or an operating table, needles – _those goddamn needles_ – burrowing into his body, poisoning his blood stream, turning the world into a twisted, horrendous kaleidoscope of what was and what _wasn't_ , thoughts and memories racing in his head, incomplete and distorted. The dark bugs always reappeared, crawling all around him, approaching him, getting on him and trying to find their way inside. 

The doctors tried to speak to him, closely analyzing the effects all the chemicals and drugs had on him. Their voices sounded distant as though he was not quite there. Perhaps he really wasn't.  
The eyes were all on him. His own eyes pried open as they forced him to watch the screens that filled his chemical-clouded head with static.

_Gore strewn all around him._

_The medical equipment he would need for his next project lay ready on the table beside him. He would need to undo those restraints though. Why was_ he _kept in place? It should be the other way round..._

 _The scissors entered soft flesh._

_Cold eyes stared at him before a knife pierced his back, leaving a burning pain. He really should have eviscerated him instead._

_Bugs. Humming. A blinding surgical light above him._

_Familiar faces drenched in an endless stream of red. He had done all this to them._

His head felt as if it could burst, his stomach churned, his heart raced. He was going to suffocate. He struggled against the restraints, but they held him firmly in the chair, leaving him helplessly exposed to the horrors unfolding before him. 

**_Please, make it stop!_**

But no relief came. 

When Rick had been an executive – what seemed like an eternity ago; he was not even sure any more whether he had only dreamed it all – he had not concerned himself with the extent of the experiments. All the talk about the crying and begging patients had only ever caused a shrug from him. Sometimes even a smirk.  
No need to sink his hands in the filth. All letters on a screen. One ought to demonstrate some backbone, he had thought. Most of the patients were criminals anyway.

 _The blades pierced her upper abdomen, blood coating his hand. 'You have no proof!' he roared, rage clouding his common sense. This bitch just sold him out._

' _I'm not insane. I'm not one of them!_ ' 

Only those who have experienced true horror could activate the Engine. That much he had known, too. All experiments had one ultimate goal.

 _A searing pain spread through his body. The dark amorphous entity watched._

Turning a human into a nanobot-producing factory, putting the Walrider under control. Inducing and using nightmares to make the subjects more receptive to the treatment. 

Hallucinogenic drugs, chemicals, hydrotherapy, hypnosis, shock, even surgery, and more... straightforward methods. All potential means to achieve the desired effects had to be tested and documented.

The numbers decided what would be continued.

Lying on a stretcher, unable to move, a sharp blade crossing his skin leaving a burning, stinging pain in its wake. Slowly and carefully peeling away the parts that had been affected by the Engine. They wished to break him. That would make it easier to control him. But he would not let them. He wouldn't. 

_He wouldn't. This should not be their prerogative in the first place._

Screams echoed, so distant and so close to him at the same time. Rick registered only later on that they were his own.

Afterwards the doctors would claim that he had inflicted all those wounds on himself in a delirium. They had tried to tell him that when the drugs coursed through his veins, messing with his mind. Messing with the truth. 

Wearing his patient's clothing had become unbearable as the itchy fabric grazed all these stinging, oozing wounds and scars, sticking to his skin. 

In the late evening one day Rick found himself restlessly pacing around in his room. Tired as he felt, he did not even begin to consider lying down on the hard mattress. Because then he would see _those_ images. Find himself in the horrid landscape of nightmares only a broken, twisted mind could ever conjure. The very remembrance of them caused his stomach to churn, a sour taste arising in the back of his throat.

Rick's sight fell on the damaged mirror above the basin once again. It showed a mere ruin of his former self. His body had started thinning, the shadows of his cheek bones more pronounced than before. A prominent scar traversed his forehead.

He could swear that he had already seen this version of himself a long time ago before, however. Long before this entire mess...

His heart rate increased once again while the suffocating feeling he knew too well by now returned.

The mirror revealed the old, blood-stained walls behind him. Cockroaches wandered the floor, disappearing in tiny cracks in the corners. Flies buzzed all around him, gorging themselves on the rotting bits of gore clinging to the basin and the bed frame. 

Rick averted his gaze from the mirror and looked around the room. A mangled patient lay on the bed, bound to it by chains, on the verge of death.

 _It was impressive how much the human body could take. Alas, it looked as though this patient would cease to be useful soon. He would need to preserve the most important parts at least while he still could._  
He approached the bed, examining the patient's face. The man was unresponsive, eyes staring somewhere in the distance, a death rattle escaping his throat, barely audible among the buzzing. _Rick had gained quite some knowledge from this one. Dragging the patient here had been problematic, of course, but in the end it had been worth it._

Shaking overtook Rick's body as clarity returned to him. Yet, the pictures would not disappear, too real in their detail. 

No. Rick shook his head. This could not be. He went back to the basin, immediately turning on the tab and splashing cold water on his face.

Gasping for air, he stared at his reflection once again. This couldn't have been him. The mirrors lied. As did the doctors. As did _he_. 

Rick brought a shaking hand to the left side of his face. He wanted and _needed_ to see the truth that everyone around him tried to take away from him. To see clearly. To make these visions disappear. The visions having prosecuted him long before he came here. _The sights he had always seen._

His hand cramped, his long nails burrowing into the skin above his brow, raking it. It burned, but he could not stop.

His nails turned red as he kept scratching, _clawing_ , blood running down his face and fingers. Before long they stopped right in front of his left eye, the shaking of his hand having only intensified. 

He had to _see_. The chemicals and the Engine were clouding his brain. Buzzing sounded all around him as the static resurfaced like so many times before. Only outside of the cage could he see what truly existed.

Breathing in and out, Rick halted for a few seconds. He saw red. He just wanted everything to stop finally.

Another deep inhalation. And then he pushed, the world drenched in black and agony.

* * *

Long shadows fell on him and the tiled floor of the bathroom. With a shallow breath he lay in icy cold water in one of the therapy bathtubs, shivering. Yet, this time the water had an oddly soothing effect on him – a counter to the fire engulfing his entire body from all the fresh scars and cuts traversing his thinned, dehydrated skin.

With a widened eye Rick kept staring at the grey ceiling, barely ever blinking. His head still ached right behind the other, now empty eye socket hidden behind a patch, dully-throbbing. What he would give to stop it.

The doctors had found him kneeling in the centre of his room and bloodied as the former executive held his left eye suspended only by the optic nerve in his hand, rasping. They had treated his injury right after and deemed it suiting to make him go through yet another hydrotherapy session. All this had passed him like a dream, it seemed, however.

Water dripped on the floor in single drops, echoing, unbearably loud amidst the silence of the room. The distant cawing of ravens sounded from somewhere outside.

Images fluttered before him in an endless stream, some real, some surreal – but he could not tell them apart any more. One more gruesome than the other. In the end, he could not escape them. This was truly his reality.

Had he known what fate he would ultimately meet working for Murkoff, would he have stayed? Rick would not lie to himself now – of course he would have. The threat of a hard downfall had always been there anyway; he had known it and seen the consequences with his own eyes. But someone like him would not fall of course. Never him. The executive had been in his element after all.

For that, he had to pay now. 

He has been playing with fire for far too long, believing himself to be its master. And in the end, he got burned. 

Rick closed his eye, breathing heavily.

_The application form lay before him, waiting to be filled with his information and sent to its intended recipient. Nothing stood between him and his childhood dream any more. His school grades looked convincing – he had worked hard to achieve them, opening a straight, clean path for himself to his desired career._

_Just when he took a pen in his hand to start filling the application, a knock on his door interrupted his train of thoughts. Rick turned around to see the door being opened carefully, his father entering the room and nearing him. It appeared as though the older man wanted to inform him of something when his sight suddenly fell on the papers on Rick's desk. Of course he immediately inquired about Rick's endeavours, curious. When Rick provided his explanation, his father put a hand on his shoulder, a warm smile on his face._

_“Buddy, don't go to medical school,” the man began. “Doctors are on the wrong side of litigation.” He went on to explain more disadvantages of Rick's current choice and why he should rather head for business school instead. His arguments caused uncertainty to grow within the boy suddenly. Rick glanced at the empty papers again, sighing._

_Perhaps his father was right after all._

Interesting – what would his daddy dearest think now if he knew what became of his son?

A bitter smile went over his lips. He really should have become a doctor when he had the chance. None of this would have happened then. Why had he just given in that moment?

With that, Rick dozed off against his own will, the cold having only made him drowsier.

 _However, there was always time to set things right. One just needed to truly believe in one's own success, to actively strive for it. From nothing came nothing after all. Rick was no quitter._

And then he woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to RL stuff it is possible that the story will be put on hold for a while until I am done with said stuff. I cannot give any exact numbers, however.


	7. Alter Ego

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something about Rick has changed. A change that does not go unnoticed by the staff.

He looked around, trying to remember how he had gotten here. It must have been quite a while since he had fallen asleep. The memories came back to him only slowly in small shards. The returning throbbing in his head behind his left eye socket eventually pieced them together.

He righted himself in the bathtub, each movement sending a stinging pain up his entire body, reminding him of all the wounds that had been inflicted on it.  
The cold water swashed, falling on the floor in drops, interrupting the silence of the room. Several nurses stood in the corners, watching, tiredness and boredom making themselves obvious in their faces.

His sight went to his own body again. Rick lifted his hands, noticing how his fingertips have become wrinkly from soaking in the water so long. Leaning back once more, Rick stared at the ceiling, sighing.

As soothing as this little bath proved to be, and as much as he wanted to stay, forget all of his troubles, there was a lot of work to catch up to.  
Still, Rick knew he could not just get up and leave right now. The staff would be on him in no time – and he was not in a position to withstand them properly yet.

No matter though – he had a surgeon's patience. He could play along and then seize any opportunity offering itself to him the very moment it arose.

One of the nurses eventually approached his tub, beckoning him to get out. Slowly he stepped out of the bathtub, shivering, goosebumps having appeared all over his skin. After being roughly dried with a towel, Rick put on his patient's clothes, careful not to graze his wounds, and was led out of the hydrotherapy room.

While following the nurse through the hallways, Rick could not shake the feeling that he was being watched the whole time as though the very walls had eyes. Eyes having belonged to those he had once considered equals, following every single step he took. He breathed in, trying to ignore it.

The walls around him looked like they have begun to crumble, dust gathering on the floor. Here and there dried blood splatters formed a crust while some pictures hung lopsidedly, their glass frames shattered. The entire building might have been old, of course, but Rick could not remember that it had been in such an abysmal state. Not that it should surprise him. 

“Ya know, I think you should really do something about the interior,” Rick started, his sight wandering about the hallway. Several bugs scurried on the floor, past the two men, seeking refuge in small crevices in the baseboard. “I mean, I get it – renovation can be expensive, but there's no valid reason to let it all go _this_ far.”

The nurse briefly turned his head, mustering him with a raised eyebrow before averting his attention from him again.

“Yes, buddy, I'm talking to you. It's rude to ignore someone who is speaking to you,” Rick continued, feigning a hurt tone.

Still no answer. 

Rick huffed. In any case, he would get them to talk to him soon enough...

Eventually they arrived in his room. The buzzing of flies and the stench of rotting flesh were gone. The room looked fairly tidy even when the mirror above the basin remained broken. No mangled patient lay on the bed. _Because there had never been any. There had been only Rick here._

And the hallway outside of the room did not look any worse in fact. Gone was the image of a decrepit interior as well.

The nurse locked him in only to return later again with restraints that he attached to the bed and shackled around Rick's wrists after the nurse beckoned him to lie down. The metal chafed his skin. Safety precautions, Rick guessed, probably to prevent him from hurting himself again. 

Oh, but they did not need to worry about that now in any case.

Darkness filled his room when the nurse turned off the lights and closed the door upon leaving. However, Rick did not feel an ounce of tiredness right now. He had been sleeping long enough. _Not that sleep came easily in this place anyway._

Thus Rick kept staring at the ceiling with his one healthy eye, waiting for time to pass, trying to ignore the persisting throbbing in his head. Only the soft rattling of chains and the occasional gust of wind from outside disrupted the silence. This night would turn out to be a long one.

* * *

The morning had passed relatively calm even if Rick still found himself unable to take a single bite out of any food presented to him, his stomach churning upon the very sight. He had just barely managed to gulp the watery coffee down – only to keep himself awake for the day.

During the first break in the asylum routine Rick rummaged through the old cupboard standing in the corner of the social room until he eventually found something arousing his interest: an old, dusty chessboard, snapped shut to contain whatever chess pieces remained. He carefully took it out of the cupboard and carried it over to a free small table, seating himself on one of the chairs standing around it.

Putting the pieces out of the board and arranging them, Rick noticed that the set had still remained complete. He leaned back in his chair, looking at the black and white chess pieces. The smell of old wood reached his nostrils, suddenly evoking something from deep within him; something he hadn't felt in a very long while since... Since when? 

Closing his eye, he threw his head back, letting the sentiment wash over him. 

_A warm, beautiful day. Birds chirped their melodious songs somewhere among the green leaves of the trees surrounding their backyard. He and his mother sat across each other behind a small round marble table with a chessboard on it. They were right in the middle of a match. Rick has always enjoyed these moments with her._  
_The sun shone into the veranda, hiding his mother's features behind a bright yellow veil. Only a smile could be discerned. Rick looked at the board again, trying to think about his next move. His hand moved to his chosen chess piece as he finally made his decision._

His eye opened again. Rick sighed. Such wonderful images. Too bad that this dream had been so short-lived. 

None of the present patients seemed to mind him this time. Perhaps they really did heed Father Martin's words. At least a part of them had ceased to bother Rick since that first conversation with him.  
The priest himself stood by a barred window, gazing after something outside. His lips moved while he whispered some unspoken words, his fingers aimlessly trailing the metal bars before him. He appeared more jittery than Rick remembered him. A suspicion arose in Rick's mind as he kept watching the priest's movements. 

A chuckle escaped his throat.

“Cut the art program finally, did they?” he stated, his lips curved into a faint smile. 

Father Martin jerked, obviously torn out of his thoughts, and turned around to Rick, a lost expression on his face. 

“Ah, you'll get over it soon enough. It was only a matter of time anyway. The program never yielded any promising results.” Rick shrugged. 

_It actually had though. Just not the ones that they have been looking for. Anything not furthering the project was doomed to be cancelled indeed, no matter how small or trivial the change might seem. Just how much would be left of the noninvasive therapy methods in the future, he wondered. Where were they headed?_

“Without my art I feel incomplete,” Father Martin said at last. After a short pause he added, “But I hear the voice of the Lord more loudly than before. He whispers to me every time I close my eyes, offering me guidance.”

 _That low rumbling noise mocking the sound of a human voice. He could not discern its words. But he knew that it spoke to him._

Rick wondered how often the priest had been put through the Engine. Among the patients he still looked comparatively unharmed... on a physical level. He sure was just as crazy as the rest of them though.

“I'm _sure_ he does,” Rick retorted with a hint of sarcasm. Then he pointed at the chessboard once he remembered that he had set it up recently. “Here, I've got something that might take your mind off your troubles for a moment.”

Father Martin's sight switched to the table, uncertainty in the priest's features. Of course Rick could simply not bother with the priest at all. It's not like anything relevant has ever come out of his mouth, but... at least he did not seem too keen on shunning Rick like all the others. Not that it meant much, considering that Father Martin was probably still more intent on converting him to that bullshit religion of his. Still, he was the best and only option for a playfellow right now. Rick could use the distraction. 

“Go on, feel free to take a seat,” Rick offered. Finally, Father Martin obliged, sitting down on the chair across Rick, on the side of the white chess pieces. “I do hope you know how to play, right? Let's see whether yer head is good for anythin' other than spreading your so-called gospel.”

“The word of God _must_ be spread to the flock. It is a holy task of great importance – and it is far from done,” the priest replied, his eyes meeting Rick's.

“I'm telling ya again, buddy, what you proclaim is nothing but a grand tall tale. You oughta start putting your faith into more... concrete, graspable things nowadays. As I said before, money is the only thing that truly rules this place. And it is money that ultimately determines our fate – your 'God' isn't much more than just a means to an end.”

 _Alas, it did not seem to have helped him in any way when they threw him down here like they had done to the lowliest of employees. No amount of bargaining would have changed his demise. In the end, it meant nothing._

“The pursuit of material wealth blinds the unbelievers to the truth and leaves them wilfully ignorant of our Lord. Soon enough they shall know their errancy. Don't let their words further mislead you.”

Rick listened, cocking his head. Perhaps inviting the priest to a little game session might not have been the best idea after all. He could not deny that there was something oddly amusing about hearing Father Martin's take on Murkoff's pet project though. But maybe that tongue could still be put to a better use... once Rick would get his hands on some equipment finally. 

“Don't you see it now? You've witnessed the Walrider yourself, felt his presence in your very bone marrow, haven't you? Your change is a large step towards understanding. All you need to do is to remove the veil you've put before your eye.”

His... change? What was the priest on about now? Rick looked at his hands as an all too familiar feeling arose within him again. 

The same ragged fingernails, the same dried, scaly skin. Pretty sure nothing has changed about him. Well, with the exception of this little makeover Murkoff had forced him through. But Rick doubted that this was what Father Martin referred to.

He looked up, becoming hyperaware of his surroundings suddenly. He _saw_ the bright light shining from outside through the windows, the bars leaving elongated shadows on the carpet partially covering the parquet. _Saw_ the dusty cupboard in the corner. _Heard_ the silent murmur of the other patients around them. _Saw_ the chessboard before him with the intricate pieces on it.  
_He really was in this place right now._

Static clouded his vision then, accompanied by that unbearable buzzing. The ache in his head fortified. 

Rick rubbed his temple as the static dissipated as fast as it had appeared. 

“I might have blinded myself on one side indeed, but one eye is more than enough to see that this is all hooey,” he grumbled. “Are ya going to make your move or are ya just going to preach all day? This isn't what I invited you for.”

White moves first. They played most of their match in silence, each concentrating on the chess pieces, thinking through their moves. Not without surprise did Rick notice that the priest wasn't so bad at this as he might have initially expected. 

In the end, Rick won. The session had been enjoyable enough for him to thank Father Martin for his time however. He collected the chess pieces and brought the set back to its place in the cupboard.

“Richard Trager?” a man's voice sounded from the opposite side of the room just as Rick wanted to sit down again. 

Rick turned around to see one of the nurses in the doorway holding some folder. 

“Follow me,” was all the nurse said after noticing that Rick was looking at him.  
Rick knew what would come. Sighing, he approached the nurse as the latter turned around and led him out of the break room. There were better things to do than talk to that pretender doctor, but he did not have much of a choice right now. 

All in good time, he told himself. Sometime he would eventually return to his rightful place...

* * *

The pen scratched on the paper affixed to a clipboard. Doctor Snow halted for a few seconds, rereading whatever words he had put on that paper before setting his pen aside and redirecting his attention to Rick, who was sitting right across him. 

Dried, dark brown patches of old blood crusted on the desk between them, probably belonging to some former patient. Rick did not care for its exact origins as long as it wouldn't become his own. Still, he dared not put his hands on the desk. Didn't the doctor care for proper hygiene though? Bugs crawled along the desk's edges on the floor, most likely attracted by the stench. Rick tried to ignore them even as they tried to get on his feet. 

“I've been told you were found in your room after you have seemingly mutilated your own eye. Would you mind explaining what made you do this to yourself?” the other man asked eventually.

No shift in tone. No change in expression. The doctor kept looking at him with these cold eyes examining him with distant interest. Like one would look at a dissected frog. Or a dead human body. 

The weight of the patch covering his eye socket seemed to have increased as Rick was made aware of it once again.

“Heh, that...” Rick tried to collect his words. “You could say that things might have gotten a little... too much for old Rick. I wanted to gain a clearer view of everything as it were; perceive things as they really are. But lo and behold, the human eye doesn't work so well outside of its socket. Such a shame that.” He breathed out. “Worry not though, Mister Snow, I feel much better now.”

There was still room for improvement however. _Much_ room for improvement in fact... As long as these bastards had total control over him, he would remain nothing more than a pitiful test subject. 

The pen went over the paper again.

“What do you mean by 'gain a clearer view', Mister Trager?” Doctor Snow inquired, the pen's tip floating right above the clipboard.

“That would be _Doctor_ Trager for you,” Rick stated matter-of-factly, looking the other man directly in his eyes.

Doctor Snow raised one eyebrow, gazing back at Rick.

“'Doctor'?”

Rick leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers.

“Ya see, I had sort of an epiphany. You might already know that office drudge has never been my dream job,” he began. “There are much more _fun_ , interesting ways to earn a fortune. Less... risky ones, too, if... ya get my meaning. And so I came to the conclusion to set more than a few things straight, make the choice I should have made twenty-two years ago.”

Maybe this was what Father Martin had meant by “change”? If so, the man must have been more perceptive than Rick had given him credit for. 

' _Buddy, don't go to medical school. Doctors are on the wrong side of litigation._ '

_He had wanted to become a doctor a long time ago. However, business school had become his ultimate choice._

But he could straighten everything out; even in a situation such as the one he was in. He had always been a go-getter. Why should it be different now? 

_No. No, that wasn't right. This was not what he had intended._

' _I'm a Murkoff executive! I'm one of you!_ '

' _I'm not insane. I'm not one of_ them _!_ '

 _He wouldn't let them destroy whatever was left of him. They wouldn't break him. They wouldn't._ Though he could not deny that he would gladly eviscerate certain personnel indeed. After all they have done to him. 

Rick's sight went down to the desk. There were no blood splatters. Neither did any bugs crawl on the floor. All vanished without a trace. 

The low hum returned.

“Interesting,” Doctor Snow's voice sounded, drowning out the noise. He scribbled something onto the paper. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

For a while the doctor remained silent before placing the pen down and rummaging through one of the drawers of his desk, eventually putting several photographs in front of Rick. Photographs that seemed so awfully familiar.

_This again._

His heart hammered in his chest.

“You still haven't disclosed the details concerning the events predating your hospitalization. I presume you still remember these faces, _Doctor_ Trager?”

 _As if Rick could forget these._ He stared at the photographs without saying a word. Of course he knew these faces. One photograph showed the Mitigation officer Pauline Glick. The very sight of her sufficed to make his blood boil. He could still remember her sneer as he had laid bound to an operating table, carried off to the Engine, the very day they had committed him to the asylum. An image that had remained crystal clear before his mind's eye even up to this day. Of course she had had to pry her nose into affairs that should not have concerned her in the first place. If just... if just...

The other photograph depicted the then I.T section supervisor Michelle Haas. The woman who had boldly refused to comply with his threat and ultimately almost paid with her life for that. Much could have been avoided had she just... Had _he_ just...

' _It's not my fault!_ '

' _What have you been thinking when you stormed into the office and assaulted Miss Haas? That was simply mad._ '

 _All loose ends had to be cut. Recklessness at Murkoff carried a high price. One that no money could have paid._

His chest rose and fell as he found himself unable to avert his attention from the pictures. High resolution and good colour quality. Bringing back only his worst memories. 

“So, are you finally ready to discuss the incidents today?” Doctor Snow probed, causing Rick to tear his eye away from the pictures. 

Rick groaned. “ _No._ Look, I've told you several times before. You know everything there is to know; it's not like my insight will change a goddamn thing anyway. There's nothing to be gained from it. So quit asking me about this already!”

However, a suspicion has been taking shape in his mind for a long time. These were no ordinary therapy sessions where one talked about their own troubles to find a solution to them. The doctor kept persisting on his questions just to call those memories back to his mind, over and over. Open wounds did not find any healing here. Murkoff needed them kept fresh and salted. The actual therapy required it.

He had known it even before becoming a target himself.

_Or... had it all just been a bad dream?_

In any case, it was the future that should matter to him. He would only inhibit himself if he kept dragging the weight of the past. His decision was made. 

The doctor mustered him again after scribbling even more words on his paper. 

“Who am I talking to now?” 

Rick raised his intact eyebrow. 

“I'm pretty sure that I'm still the same person, Mister Snow. Rick Trager.” After a brief pause he added, “ _Doctor_ Rick Trager.”

Another examining gaze pierced him from behind round glasses.

The tip of the pen touched the paper once more, more unknown words taking shape.

* * *

(Excerpt from Dr. Snow's notes):

_Last interview with R. Trager, former executive of M.R.D., turned out more peculiar than all previous ones. Demeanor seems to have shifted; calls himself 'Doctor' – no such self-identification has been observed before. Brief research among staff confirms novelty of this incident._  
_Request brain imaging studies to check for potential trauma-induced Dissociative Identity Disorder. Memories seem to remain consistent however. Due to previous reported dreams being of a medical nature, shift could be an effect of the Morphogenic Engine in fact. Continue treatment with special focus on behavior._

_Just how far can we influence a patient's personality?_

* * *

“Only God knows what he's trying to accomplish.”

“Do you think this is enough for today?”

“Yeah. This isn't going anywhere. Didn't figure he would be so... stubborn.”

“I'm surprised he's still conscious.”

“The patients can endure a lot sometimes...”

"He was an executive once, wasn't he?"

Voices – one older than the other. They sounded so clear, but distant as though their owners were not present in the room with him but merely speaking through some recording. His head tilted down as he tried to regain his composure. 

Rick sat in an old interrogation chair, bound to it by his wrists. His arms stung from all the needles that had been inserted into him, which had filled him once again with unknown chemicals. An unpleasant tingle went through his entire body as though an entire insect swarm crawled all over him. But there were no insects on him this time. Whether it were the drugs or a remnant of the occasional electric shock he had received during this “therapy” Rick did not know.  
A constant hum filled his ears while everything still seemed to spin around him. His impeded vision made everything only worse. An ache plagued him from the hits he had received.  
Tiny drops of blood dripped from his nose onto the fabric of his patient's clothes on his thighs.

And yet, he remained _conscious_ indeed.

“Bring these files back to their place; we're done here.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Someone's steps sounded on the stone floor, moving away from where Rick sat. A door opening and closing could be heard right after. Some clanking of tools on a metal cart right next to him followed. 

Rick's sight remained directed at the floor as he breathed in and out still trying to calm himself. Perhaps he had jumped the gun after all by having told them of his decision so soon. Oddly enough it had merely increased their interest in their attempts to tamper with him. 

But Rick still felt like himself. He would find a way to live up to his position once again, eventually. These fools wouldn't be able to hinder him. Not any more.

The door opened again, the sound followed by footsteps approaching some place not far from Rick's chair. 

“Doctor, could you please come over for a moment? We need you to look over patient 174,” a man spoke. The voice did not, however, belong to any of the two previous men that had been in the same room as Rick. 

The addressed man groaned. “Does it have to be now? Fine...”  
It was the older man from before – the one Rick did recognize. 

Footsteps, now belonging to two people, resounded once more after a short while. He heard how they left the interrogation room, leaving Rick to himself. They must have considered it unproblematic at this point. Yet...

Rick began yanking at the straps around his wrists, feeling how the old worn leather had started loosening just a tiny bit. Despite everything that has just happened to him, he still felt some energy left in his body. 

Burning pain formed on his skin as he kept tugging and twisting his hands, but he did not care. Another strong yank and his left hand became free at last, its skin reddened and torn, his elbow hitting the back of the wooden seat.  
Not wasting any time, he undid the strap on his right wrist before getting up finally. The room around him spun again as he stood wobbly on his feet. Nausea plagued him. A faint yellowish veil clouded his sight for a short moment before he finally regained his composure. 

Rick looked around. He did not know how much time was left until the doctor would reappear. But he sure was not going to let this opportunity slide. He had been waiting for this for too long.  
Soon enough his sight fell on a table at the wall. Several old medical instruments lay on it neatly arranged. Instruments that had rarely been used for their intended purpose...

Perfect.

Approaching the table, he examined the instruments, picking some of them up, his finger trailing along their sharp edges. These would make very clean cuts, he reckoned. He had felt them on himself before after all.

Prior to taking at least one of them, he needed a patient to test them on though. He couldn't just leave the room and _search_ for one – security guards would be on him faster than he could really get started. 

But, oh, why seek his patients out when they could come to him instead? That Murkoff doctor should arrive soon enough.

Rick neared the door, positioning himself right next to it in a way that he wouldn't be seen when it opens. 

It did not take long until steps sounded from outside. The door slowly swung open as the doctor entered the room. Naturally, Rick's absence from the interrogation chair did not remain unnoticed. The doctor cursed under his breath and looked around. 

Rick shut the door and swiftly closed the short distance to the Murkoff employee before the latter was able to fully register what was going on. The man did not manage to turn around in time as Rick clamped a hand over his mouth, pulling his head back, his grip firm. The employee tried to cry out, but only muffled whimpers came out of him.

“So nice to see you again. Let's just resume our little chit-chat, hmm? There's still so much to talk about,” Rick cooed into his ear. 

The time for his promotion that was long overdue had arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Status 11.04.2019: I am still working on the next chapter, which is turning out very long. The delay is caused by a major writer's block and some personal issues. I am not giving up on this story.


	8. Too alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Doctor" Trager proves himself to be more difficult to deal with. But how far can he go with his intentions to live up to his new self-given title with Murkoff still ruling over the asylum with an iron fist?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The day has finally arrived - the 8th chapter is out! Between RL stuff and some personal issues, this chapter has been one huge headache for a very long time. Not only did it turn out long, but there was one scene/sequence which gave me a LOT of trouble. I rewrote it twice and otherwise had to make a few changes until it finally made more... sense in the context of the story.
> 
> Not all too happy with how it turned out, but I am glad I managed to get it done. I've been considering to divide it into two parts, but in the end, it's all tied together...  
> There are also quite a few "supplementary" Murkoff staff characters.

It took all of the nurse's will not to spill his entire lunch from a few hours ago onto the floor. With a hand put over his mouth he forced himself to watch the events before him unfold.  
Matthew had seen some horrific shit during his time at Mount Massive before, but this sight really surpassed all of it. 

The iron stench of gore and viscera and other unsavoury bodily fluids hung heavy in the stagnant air. The doctor – or rather what used to be the person Matthew had spoken to not a long time ago – sat slumped in the interrogation chair, the leather straps bound around his wrists. Pure terror and agony, the last sentiments he must have felt in his life, were now permanently frozen in his features, widened eyes staring somewhere in the distance. His mouth hung open in a silent scream, blood running down his chin and tainting his now torn clothing. The tongue... was gone, now lying on the metal cart beside the chair among other parts having belonged to the doctor once and the blood-stained tools that had undoubtedly been used to commit this. A gash traversed his abdomen, having crudely been ripped open.

The culprit himself leaned against a wall with raised arms, facing it, surrounded by several security guards who searched him for any objects he might have hidden before their arrival. He had not put up that much of a fight, almost voluntarily submitting to the guards when they had rushed into the room. 

Too late to do anything about the doctor though. Way too late.

Doctor... No matter how many injections they had given Trager, no matter the electric shocks and physical force, he had kept insisting on his self-identification as doctor. Their task had been to see whether they could influence this personality and how consistent his memories really were. The former executive remained surprisingly stubborn.  
Neither Matthew nor the doctor could have even fathomed what his intentions were. For all they knew, that whole “doctor” spiel could just have been some misguided notion to mess with the staff. A remnant of his arrogance. 

They could not have been more wrong. 

Blood soaked the patient's clothes and covered his hands. Matthew had never met Trager personally prior to his hospitalization, but he had seen pictures of him. Had he not been told that the patient before him was Trager indeed, he might not have recognized him at all.

A withered version of his former self he was – he appeared noticeably thinner, if not downright starved. His skin has paled to a sickly colour, reddened where it had thinned and been damaged by all the experiments. Hideous scars littered his arms and face. The white medical eye patch covering his left eye socket was now adorned with small pinkish-red blotches. The patch of hair that had been ripped out of his scalp had not ever grown back and would probably never do so.

The security guards led Trager out of the room, passing Matthew. A few remained around the interrogation chair to deal with the dead doctor. The nurse approached them reluctantly, knowing he would need to help as well. He retched as his attention switched to the body again.  
This sight would forever be burned into his brain.

Yet one question kept plaguing him – after all they have done to the patient, how did he even manage to break free and subdue the doctor? 

And if this was what the therapy has ultimately made of Trager – just how much further would Murkoff be willing to go?

* * *

The very first patient had died on him quite quickly – more quickly than Rick would have anticipated. But it _was_ his first real patient, and there was still much to learn before he could truly call himself a master of surgery. At the very least he had had a chance to peek into the man's anatomy before security put a final stop to his little project.

Of course he could have tried to withstand them, but they had been many and armed. Pushing his luck did not fit into his plan – it would have been unwise to risk his life when he was just getting started. 

Eventually, the security guards brought Rick back to his room, roughly shoving him inside, and locked him in.

Rick neared the washbasin and turned on the water tab to wash his hands, watching how the diluted blood slowly vanished in the drain and coloured the greyish ceramic surface. The cold began to sting, but he did not mind. He kept holding his hands under the water even after all the blood was gone from his skin and nails, registering only the stinging in his fingers and a remaining reddish hue.

After a short while he finally turned off the tab, his sight wandering to the shattered mirror. The cracks distorted his image, but he could still see his entire face, as well as his blood-stained patient's clothing and patch. See the red blots that stood out from the faint yellow and white of the fabrics.

Nothing has changed about him. It was himself that he recognized in the mirror, as he has always looked like – perhaps with the exception of the cuts and bruises he had sustained. Carefully bringing a hand up to his eye patch, he felt the soft material under his fingers, felt the damp spots. Still felt the throbbing in his head. His fingers trailed down to the skin close to his battered lips then which has reddened and began to hurt, feeling hard to the touch. 

_It all seemed so real._

Approaching his bed, he sat on the border and looked around. The spiderweb in one of the corners has extended over time, though he could not spot its creator, only the wrapped dead hull of what was once an intruder spider. Dust has gathered around single strings, tarnishing the image of an otherwise clean room.

Standing up again, Rick went over to the window and looked outside. The sky has turned grey; it was slowly but steadily getting darker. Just barely enough light shone onto the courtyard below. Tree branches swayed gently in a mild wind.

He sighed. When was the last time he could take a stroll outside and genuinely enjoy some fresh air without time and the prospect of being subjected to inevitable experiments each day burdening him? 

Suddenly he became very much aware of the bars before the window and the still persisting pain in his face. 

Rick lowered his sight to his hands. Some promotion that was. He had had his fun – his small moment of victory in a very long time. But Murkoff still had its claws sunk deep into this place. _And he no longer belonged to them._ Rick was not going to fool himself – after his own first experiment they would most certainly not let their guard down. Just one pesky pretender doctor it might have been, but one casualty sufficed to keep the staff on edge. Especially in a place like this. 

' _I'm not one of_ them!'

' _I'm a Murkoff executive! I'm one of you!_ '

He clenched his fists, inhaling deeply. Perhaps it was not so bad of an idea after all. Fear and respect had to be earned. His potential had meant nothing to Murkoff, and now they saw nothing more than a mere experiment in him, but he could make them reconsider.  
Every business starts out small, having to face a lot of potential hardships before becoming a stable success. He would need to be more cautious in the future. One step at a time. The first one has already been taken.

Before long, the door to his room was unlocked, causing Rick to turn around to see a doctor and two nurses enter with fresh patient's clothing and a new medical eye patch.

Once Rick changed, in sight of the staff the whole time, and had his patch replaced, ready to be shackled to the bed, the doctor before him suddenly stopped to examine his face more closely, running gloved fingers down the hardened skin, poking it. Rick flinched, the touch hurting more than expected.

The doctor sighed and righted himself.

“The patient shows a skin anomaly on his face,” he said to the other men. “I suspect a bacterial infection. I would keep a close watch on it and perform some tests for confirmation and to further classify the type.” 

“Another one? The amount of skin infection cases among the patients is rising lately. There have been cases of NF as well, as far as I know,” one of the nurses replied, a hint of concern in his tone. 

“We need better, stricter hygiene rules here. I hope it's not NF in this case. But... it can't be excluded. The tests should be carried out as soon as possible – the best would be right now.”

The second nurse scowled, mustering Rick. He opened his mouth for a second as if to say something, but decided against it immediately. Rick recognized him from his “interrogation”. 

NF... The abbreviation rang a bell. A memory of a medical article came to his mind. Skin discolouration, pain, minor injuries being sufficient to contract the disease, rapid spreading...  
He suddenly felt a rope tightening around his throat as his pulse increased again. Of course, it would explain some of the other patients' deformities...

Rick breathed in, calming himself. The diagnosis was not set yet. It could very well be something else. No need to get worried right now. 

“Sir, you are to come with us,” the doctor turned to Rick again. 

“Could I at least get a _personal_ disclosure of what's going on? You shouldn't leave your patients in the dark, ya know, _especially_ when you intend to perform several medical procedures on them,” Rick said, slowly standing up.

A suspicion existed already, but a second confirmation wouldn't hurt. Besides, he did not appreciate the men talking over him. 

“It appears that you have contracted a bacterial skin infection. We'll have to determine the pathogens to be able to treat it appropriately,” the doctor answered. “Once we have the results, we will treat you with the respective antibiotics. In the worst case, however... it might become necessary to remove the infected tissue as well should we find that the infection in question is Necrotizing Fasciitis. This disease is rare, therefore the chance of this being the case is slim, but should still be considered.” 

“Just be glad that Murkoff still needs you alive and relatively _whole_ ,” the still scowling nurse commented, contempt in his tone. 

Rick turned to him, a smile appearing on his lips. “What's with all the gloom, buddy? Are you angry now because of this one incident? If it's any consolation, I tried my best to keep him alive. Buut, it was a first time for me – mistakes are bound to happen. Cut me some slack there, will ya? Besides, that doctor was no good anyway. You oughta make cuts sometimes.”

For all he knew, Rick would not mind _firing_ the entirety of Murkoff by now... 

The nurse remained silent, only blinking a few times.

In the end, Rick had no other choice but to follow the three men. At least if he wanted to maintain any chance to rise up to his rightful position again. 

They weren't done with him yet. Not by a long stretch. Neither shall he be done with them.

* * *

The tests they made him go through revealed just a few days later that the skin condition had not been as harmless as anticipated after all. It had indeed turned out to be Necrotizing Fasciitis. In addition, his symptoms had only worsened over the time, ending in a fever and the infection spreading to his left cheek, accompanied by an awful ache.

A debridement had become inevitable. 

The doctors were kind enough to assure him that the infection has not spread so far to endanger his life now, thanks to the comparatively early diagnosis, but Rick knew that the surgery that had been performed on him must have left a noticeable and permanent mark.

Having been brought to his room after the surgery and shackled to his bed right away, Rick did not have an immediate chance to see the results for himself. A catheter had been placed in his right arm through which the nurses periodically administered antibiotics.  
The entire left lower quarter of his face stung – Rick felt that he couldn't even close his lips on this side. In fact, he couldn't sense his lips there at all.

Later on he found out that a part of his lips and the skin around it had been cut off indeed, his flesh and teeth exposed from cheek to chin, distorting the left side of his face into a permanent snarl. With this new makeover and the covered eye socket, there was now something downright... inhuman about Rick.  
He just couldn't stop looking into the mirror whenever he had the chance, every time feeling a combination of morbid fascination and utter revulsion.

Cut away any infected tissue to prevent further spreading, treat the open wound, and it was all done. A method he could get behind. Yet...

_Murkoff, the employees, himself... he had lost all control._

They just kept taking away from him. His job, his freedom, his _skin_ , his very mind. 

_Was it really himself he was looking at?_

_A warm liquid ran down his face as he knelt and clutched something small and soft in his left hand. He wanted_ , needed _to_ see.

But he had woken up at last. It must be. 

Yet the dream just wouldn't cease.

Staring into the mirror like so many times before, Rick clenched his teeth and hissed. A fist collided with the mirror once again, single shards falling into the washbasin. Rick breathed in and out, leaning on the ceramic, sight fixed on the remaining pieces on the wall. All the same image still, even when parts were now missing.  
He _had_ woken up.

Everything felt real enough. This _was_ him, who he should have been from the very beginning – Doctor Richard Trager. And the doctor still had a lot of things to set straight.

* * *

Rumours and news spread fast in the asylum – that Rick had found out a long time ago. It was not any different this time with the deceased doctor and Rick's involvement in his death.

Rick sat in a chair beside the table where he had played chess with Father Martin once, close to a barred window in the patient's social room. The priest himself was nowhere to be seen. 

A small TV had been turned on with some patients sitting on a couch and watching the screen. Others, like Rick, spent their time alone, sometimes whispering incoherent sentences under their breaths and _giggling_ , while the rest gathered in small groups talking to each other.

Sharing past experiences, meaningless chit-chat – all to gain some remnant of normalcy in this place, some company.

Rick watched the patients with distant interest. At this point he reckoned that he looked more similar to all that had been “treated” for a longer while. Yet everyone seemed to have their own afflictions, some even twisted beyond recognition. As much as he had wanted to avoid it, he now counted among them he knew. Only few remained physically _intact_.

The idea to approach any of them did not even occur to Rick, however, for any effort would be futile anyway, until one particular conversation caught his interest.

“Have you heard about what happened to one of the doctors?” a patient asked the little group he was sitting with at a square table. “They say our former exec killed him; gutted him like a pig.”

“Didn't figure he'd end up being able to do something like this. Whatever they're doing to us, it must have gotten to his head,” another one replied. 

“Serves them right, if you ask me,” a third patient said in contempt, an underlying sense of hurt in it. “I'd gladly get my hands on these fuckers myself. _They_ are the sick ones.”

“He _was_ one of them though...”

“I guess I'd be pretty damn pissed, too, if my own people kicked me down here.” The first one chuckled dryly. “No one's safe in their ranks it seems.”

“Oi, bones!” the third patient called out suddenly, looking at Rick. A grin revealed his crooked teeth, some of which had fallen out. “Tell us, how did it feel cutting into that 'doctor'? You're beginning to understand now what we all go through, do you? Bet you didn't lose any sleep over any of us random 'lunatics' when you were one of _them_. And do share what made them dispose of you? Perhaps that priest had a point after all.”

The healthy corner of Rick's mouth twitched before curving upward in what was supposed to be a smile. He stood up and neared the patient trio. 

“You shouldn't pry your nose into affairs that don't concern ya,” Rick answered. “I've had plenty of time to contemplate my choices. You are right about one thing: he _was_ sick, in need of a very special treatment. And I just so happened to have received my promotion to Doctor myself. It was an enlightening experience.” Then he sighed. “Too bad security didn't seem to appreciate my efforts though.”

An idea suddenly began brewing in his mind upon seeing the still grinning patient. Murkoff would certainly not appreciate any of his efforts. _They had never cared about him even before this mess in the first place._ The Variants, however... _did they now call him one, too?_... Perhaps, just perhaps he really could turn affairs into his favour again, at least to a limited degree.

“Tell ya what, I'm new to this whole thing indeed so I'm a little short-staffed. I could use a pair of helping hands,” Rick continued, placing a finger on the intact side of his lips.

The first patient, the one having initiated the conversation among the trio, snorted. “What do you mean? You suddenly want us to _assist_ you? A bit bold of you to ask, isn't it?”

“He got rid of one of their doctors and now thinks he can just ask for favours,” the second one scoffed. “You've heard David. He doesn't seem to have had troubles disposing of asylum staff as their executive either. This incident means nothing.”

Rick turned to him. “Allow me to make amends. I know our relations didn't start on the best of terms, but I'm sure we can still work out a deal that benefits us all. Let me tell you – you're targeting the wrong guy.”

The patient raised an eyebrow. “I think the therapy just fried your brains entirely. It looks like somebody forgot his place.” He stood up, approaching and facing Rick.

He was a few inches taller than Rick, and broader. Some of the skin on his face was severely irritated. Fresh stitches could be seen above his right eyebrow. His dark brown eyes revealed nothing but scorn.

Quite an imposing fellow, but Rick did not feel any pinch of fear. Not any more. 

A hand struck for Rick's collar, grasping it with a firm grip.

“Do not think I'll ever forget who you were. You have no say in the asylum any more, and you better remember that well.”

“Ha, I believe you are the one who has it all wrong. Here, let me jog your memory,” Rick said, still smiling. This time he was not going to wait until the Variant would make his first move. Rick's fist collided with the other man's jaw, causing him to let go of his collar. The punch seemed to have caught the patient off guard, but it did not make him reconsider his previous intentions. In fact, he snarled and glared at Rick before launching his counter attack. Rick dodged it, immediately answering with another punch – one that came out stronger than expected, sending the Variant stumbling backwards into the table.

From the corner of his eye Rick saw that the rest of the patients in the room turned to the ruckus though none of them dared to interfere just yet.

Suddenly his opponent lunged at him, tackling Rick before he could evade, and tried to throw him to the ground. Rick barely managed to keep on his feet, feeling the weight of the larger man on himself. Soon enough the two men locked together, grasping each other as one tried to subdue the other, exchanging punches. 

Eventually, Rick managed to gain the upper hand in the quarrel as a subsequent move caused the other man to lose balance and fall to the floor on his back. With a hand still gripping Rick's clothes, the patient pulled Rick down with him and took another swing at him, which landed right above his jaw on the left side. Despite the increasing pain, it did not suffice to stop Rick. Without hesitation Rick got on the Variant and began pummelling him. His opponent let go off his clothes in an attempt to shield himself. Rick could swear that he saw a pinch of fear arising in the patient's eyes. The corner of his lips twisted into a half-smile once again.

“Let me... help you... _see_ ,” Rick panted.

He tried to pry his opponent's arms away from his face. The Variant struggled against the grip, managing to wrench one arm free, immediately trying to hit Rick again. However, in that moment, Rick's hand aimed for one of the patient's eyes, the movement fast and precise. A loud shriek sounded through the room as Rick began digging and ripping, his long nails soon tainted by blood.

Rick was so fixated on his struggling opponent, who desperately tried to remove the hand away from his face, that he barely registered several fast, heavy footsteps behind him.

“Stop right now!” a male voice exclaimed.

A pair of strong arms seized Rick by his own and yanked him away from the agonized Variant, forcing him on his feet. The patient had both of his hands over his affected eye, gritting his teeth, ragged breaths escaping him as he yelled various profanities at Rick.

“I'm afraid that I have to reject your application. Please don't take it personal though, buddy,” Rick said looking at the writhing mess on the floor.

As the adrenaline in his body was slowly receding, Rick began to feel the effects of the beating on him. His head throbbed while the stinging of his wounds had worsened again. He felt his own blood sticking to his skin.

The men holding Rick turned out to be security guards. While they slowly dragged Rick out of the room, he saw that all patients' eyes were fixed on him, a whole palette of emotions discernible in them. Contempt, confusion, worry, and... intrigue? 

Some patients moved to the still-lying Variant to tend to him and help him upright himself.

Right before the guards reached the door, Rick's eye met the ones of the patient having called out to him first. And this Variant kept looking at him the whole time, his head tilted ever so slightly.

* * *

Murkoff wasn't done with him. Indeed, as Rick had fathomed, their interest in him just kept increasing. They must be seeing something in him – perhaps his potential was not ignored after all. Though Rick could still not say that he enjoyed the sort of attention they kept giving him... 

Static before his eye. A blurry haze, his head feeling as if it could explode any moment – no matter how many times they subjected him to these tortures it did not get any more bearable. Not even now. It never would. 

Only more needles. Needles. _Those accursed needles._

While Rick was subjected to maddening visions and distortions of his environment, restrained more heavily than before and ever-watched, they kept posing questions.

' _Do you really believe yourself to be a doctor?_ ' Yes. Of course. He had always wished to be one and had worked hard to attain this degree, to follow his dream. Perhaps if they let him loose he could show them how work needs to be done properly.

_He had been a Murkoff executive – they should know this! But it did not mean anything to them – and hasn't in a long time._

Had it all really just been a dream? _He just wanted to wake up finally._

The pain, the static, and that horrid buzzing were all real though. He knew. He _felt_.

The blades were turned against him once again, their edges sharp as ever, leaving more deep cuts in his already-torn flesh as he lay still on an operating table unable to move due to the chains holding him down and the paralysing substances coursing through his veins.

Chemical restraints, physical ones – all to keep him under control. 

' _Sir, you have inflicted all these wounds on yourself_ ,' they told him over and over again. 

_Has he?_ Liars. He had ripped out his own eye, clawed at his skin, starved himself, but he had not mutilated his entire body like this.

' _Cooperate with us, and it will be easier for you._ '

' _Do you remember why you were committed to the asylum?_ ' It felt as though he had always been here. Mount Massive needed its chief surgeon. He should not be a patient. He was not the insane one after all.

_All loose ends had to be cut. He had gotten ahead of himself, proving himself to be a liability in Murkoff's eyes. But he did not want to admit to it. Not to them._

' _I'll pay for that fucking kid if it just means I can get out of here!_ ' Rick had yelled in desperation as they forced him to watch those horrendous screens like so many times before. ' _I'll do anything – just stop, please!_ '

But there has never been one. Neither had he ever wanted or needed it. They couldn't have threatened his career over this. 

' _It's not my fault!_ '

' _We're going to make you better._ '

But it had only been a nightmare. The images flashed before his eye, so vivid and detailed, intertwining with the morbid Rorschach-like images, with the visions of other men's broken minds.

Hands grabbed at him, refusing to let go. No part of him remained unscathed. They just couldn't do without humiliating him on top of everything else. 

_Just when will all of this stop finally?_

Soon enough they had decided to do away with the medical eye patch and replace it with what Rick could only describe as some odd mechanical monocle that looked like it belonged more to some sort of Steampunk outfit. He had woken up after a surgery just to find this device firmly lodged into his eye socket. What Murkoff had tried to accomplish with this “experiment”, he could not yet tell. Having a gaping hole instead of an eye, Rick could have very well been used to test some new idea.

Make the best of a situation. Why focus only on nanotechnology? Nanobot-producing factories and mechanical transplants – groundbreaking innovations, all promising a booming business.

However, Rick could not say that he felt that much of a difference, his sight still impeded as before.

In the end, an experiment he was to them. The sole upside he saw in all this was that he felt his strength increasing with time. No matter what tests they made him go through, no matter his withered body, Rick still felt very much _alive_.

Indeed, with time he felt how the chemical restraints slowly began losing their efficiency on him – and even though he could not escape the chains forcing him to endure the experiments, he maintained control over his body movements when they injected him with the paralysing substances once they were done with the tests and intended to relocate him.

This Rick decided to hide from the doctors and their assistants, just playing along by pretending that he could not move until the time to strike eventually arrived...

* * *

The smell of disinfectant burned his nose. Rick's entire body stung from yet another experiment as he lay bound to an operating table. His chest rose and fell as he tried to endure the pain from the new wounds while a doctor and his assistant stood by the table looking at what appeared to be some documents.

“His regeneration rate is truly increasing,” the doctor commented, his sight alternating between the papers and Rick. “It seems to correlate with his Engine activity, though there don't seem to be any signs of a nanobot swarm.”

The man went over to a desk with a computer, putting the documents down before seating himself and typing something in the opened program.

“Should I inject the chemical restraints now, Doctor Waite?” the assistant, who still remained at the operating table, asked. 

“Yes. We are done for today.”

The assistant approached the drawers aligned along one of the walls and began preparing the syringe and needle for the injection. Rick watched his every move as well as his right eye's field of view allowed him to.

Eventually the man returned to the operating table and inserted the needle into Rick's arm, slowly emptying the syringe containing a faintly-yellowish liquid.  
Rick knew it would take a few moments for the substance to take effect, having gone through this so often before. After throwing one last glance at the small table with the medical equipment on it right beside his head, he slowly closed his eye, taking slow, deep breaths.

Silence prevailed for a few seconds before footsteps sounded right next to him, the sound soon followed by a door being opened. 

Fingers going over a keyboard. The silent hum of the lights above him. A low rumbling. 

Soon he heard the assistant return to the room with a gurney, wheels rolling on the hard floor. The sound stopped on his right next to the operating table. 

More footsteps. The clank of keys getting louder as the person holding them neared Rick. 

One by one the restraints were undone. First the ones around his ankles, then the ones around his hips and neck, and lastly, the restraints around his wrists. A faint feeling of relief washed over him. He was so close now.

The typing on the keyboard ceased as Rick heard the doctor stand up and join his assistant. Both men carefully dragged him onto the gurney. And just as the two pairs of arms let go of him, Rick opened his eye and instantly snatched at the man closest to him, who turned out to be the assistant. The assistant just barely had enough time to widen his eyes in shock when Rick hit his face and sent him stumbling back from the impact. Rick used the moment to stand up before turning to the small table now standing at the head of the gurney. He grabbed the bloodied scalpel lying on it and turned his attention to the two bewildered Murkoff employees. 

“How did you...?!” the doctor at the foot of the gurney stammered, lips quivering. “Henderson?!”

“I administered the usual amount; I don't know how he surpassed it!” the assistant cried out, having just recuperated from the assault. 

“I'm sorry to interrupt ya, but I think it's about time that I took over operations here again,” Rick said, smiling. 

The surgeon would live up to his title once more...

Henderson turned to the door and began running towards the emergency button right beside it, but Rick reacted faster. Closing the distance to the assistant, Rick swung the scalpel, the sharp blade cutting into the man's throat with the same ease as a knife cutting through butter.

Blood seeped from the gash. Henderson croaked as his hands went to his throat in a vain attempt to stop the flow. At almost the same moment he fell on the floor, his body weakening until his movements ultimately stopped.

Rick's attention switched to Doctor Waite whose skin has become as white as chalk. Waite breathed in heavily, his eyes wandering from Rick to his dead assistant and then to the open door. He dared not budge from his place – there was no way he could reach the exit without crossing Rick's path.

Rick moved first. He quickly shut the door before aiming for the remaining employee. Just as Rick took his first steps towards him, Waite ran behind the operating table separating the two men, his sight changing between Rick and his environment as he desperately tried to figure out what to do.

A chase around the operating table and the gurney ensued, Rick trying to cross the employee and prevent him from getting close to the door side. If Waite managed to press the emergency button before he could overwhelm him, security would quickly rush into the room and foil Rick's plan. 

Closely watching the doctor's every movement, Rick adapted his own, hoping to cut his path off. Waite, however, proved himself to be a rather slippery target – before Rick could get to him, he managed to reach the small tray with the medical instruments and promptly grabbed the first thing his hand got on – a syringe – all the while never dropping his sight from Rick.

As Waite stopped to contemplate his next move, the hand holding the syringe shaking, Rick finally managed to get closer to him. Now the only thing between him and the doctor was the assistant's corpse on the floor.

A brief glance to the emergency button confirmed Rick's suspicion about the doctor's intentions. Rick instantly stepped over the body, charging at the employee. The assault caused Waite to stumble a few steps back as he tried to evade it. Raising the syringe, he swung the instrument at Rick's face. Rick barely managed to dodge the attack, the needle grazing him along his right cheekbone. Just one inch above and Rick would have been rendered permanently blind. Even though the cut was not deep, he could feel the wound begin to sting.

With his answer he did not wait – Waite, poised to deflect an incoming counter, did not react fast enough when Rick hit him with his free fist. The punch hit his jaw, causing his head to tilt backwards. Another subsequent hit and Waite fell backwards on the floor, the syringe rolling out of his hand.

For a few seconds Rick remained standing beside the doctor, ready to strike again the very moment he would try to stand up, but Waite wouldn't budge, merely trying to focus his half-closed eyes on Rick.

“Being feisty, are we? There's no need to be so afraid though,” Rick spoke in a calm and friendly way. “I just want to carry out a few standard tests; hone my skills as it were. I'm sure you'll understand.”

He lifted the still largely-unmoving man and carried him over to the operating table, placing him on it. All wounds Rick had sustained during his treatment, which he had tried to ignore the whole time, stung, pain going through his entire body. His own blood had dried on his skin. But this wouldn't stop him. 

One by one he closed the restraints around Waite's joints, binding him to the table just like Rick had been bound to it before. The new patient's eyes were fully-open by now, pupils dilated. Ragged breaths escaped the man.

“What are you doing? You won't be able to get away with this; you'll be put down!” Waite threatened, though his voice was faltering.

That, or he might end up getting relocated to a basement cell indeed, Rick knew, once other staff members would catch up on what was going on right now. He wasn't going to blind himself with an illusion - it would be only a matter of time. He let out a sigh before the healthy corner of his mouth twisted upwards in a half-smile again.

But how would one accomplish anything in their life without taking some risks? Anything was better than being subjected to all these experiments anyway...

“I do hope Murkoff isn't going to forget the potential they see in me. It wouldn't seem lucrative for them to get rid of me again,” Rick answered. “Now, let's see what we're dealing with here.”

What value would this employee have, he wondered.

He unbuttoned the patient's white coat and pulled the shirt underneath up to reveal his torso. Waite's body was shaking, his chest rising and falling in short intervals. The scalpel's blade hovered closely over his abdomen as Rick contemplated his next project. 

“Stop! Please! You can't do this!” the patient screamed, pulling at his restraints as he looked at the scalpel.

' _Don't put me in! You can't!_ '

' _I'll do anything – just stop, please!_ '

Rick furrowed his brow. Buzzing began to fill his ears again, getting louder and louder as he kept staring at the patient. 

_It was such a familiar sight. Just like in his dreams._

Static clouded his vision for a short moment, an awful pain appearing in his head. And just as fast as it had appeared, it vanished again.

It would be best to silence the patient first. It would do no good to get distracted. 

Rick went over to the small table by the gurney and pulled it closer to the operating table to gain better access to the surgical instruments. He grabbed the mouth opener and began to force Waite's jaws apart right away. The patient tried to struggle, but his attempts were rendered futile by Rick's persistence. 

With one hand he grasped Waite's lower jaw with a strong grip, tilting his head towards himself, while bringing the scalpel to his tongue. 

Then he started to work.

The twitching increased almost in an instant as the Murkoff employee desperately tried to escape the restraints. Screams turned into gurgling as blood leaked into Waite's throat. With high precision Rick carefully cut through muscle until the tongue became separated at last. He placed the organ on the small table before mustering his patient again.

Rattling mixed with the employee's loud cries and coughing. No more coherent words could be formed.

“This is much better, isn't it?” Rick said, examining the bared torso as he planned his next cut. “Let's start your proper examination now. I want to see what you are really worth.”

The blade touched soft skin. Slowly moving the scalpel Rick began cutting a straight line along the abdomen. A task that proved to be fairly difficult as the patient just wouldn't cease to twitch. But as long as Rick would keep the organs intact later on, he could still work with this.

The idea to use a paralysing agent crossed his mind for a second before it dissipated again – it would only consume more time to find anything suitable.

“You've been causing me quite a lot of trouble,” Rick sighed. “But, you know, I'm no longer so miffed about it. The whole 'executive' thing just did not work out so well for me – I knew I should have taken up surgery much sooner. The therapy helped me see my true purpose in life. And... who knows? Perhaps this will turn out a lot more rewarding and profitable than crunching numbers all day.”

His contemplation was answered by more unintelligible moaning and croaking as the scalpel reached the patient's lower abdomen.

Just as Rick wanted to continue cutting a window into the body, he heard banging on the door that made him jolt. His sight directed to the entrance, he listened to the sounds behind it.

“Security here. Please respond with your status or we'll come in,” a loud male voice got out. 

The patient's moans and the rattling of the chains became even louder in response. Rick groaned. Even though he had anticipated that Murkoff staff would appear sooner or later in any case, he could have hoped that he would have more time than this. He was just getting started after all.

Pulling the blade out of the patient, Rick immediately headed to the door and hid to its left. More pain-filled screams escaped Waite as he tried to form words in his state that were vaguely-reminiscent of “help me”.

Would Rick just surrender like he did last time? His heart started to hammer again. He hated this option, but compliance would ensure his survival more likely – if his recent little experiment did not give the guards a reason to take him down on sight anyway.

“Please stay behind, Sir,” the same voice said again more calmly.

The door opened, hiding Rick from the two security guards who entered the room with their weapons held ready. From his spot Rick could not tell their type though.

“ _Shit_ ,” one of them muttered as the guards discovered the corpse on the ground. Their attention then shifted to the operating table. The guard raised his voice right away. “We need immediate medical assistance, Mister Miller!”

Rick could hear quick footsteps coming from the hallway outside of the surgery room and getting more silent. 

The security guards scanned the room while nearing the gurney. The one on the right kept looking at Waite.

“This looks bad,” he commented. “Do you know which patient was supposed to be here last?”

“I believe Miller mentioned patient 182 – Trager? The same guy who's already eviscerated another doctor before,” the second guard replied. “Keep your eyes open; he must still be in this room somewhere – there is no way he could have gotten far.”

The guard began turning to the left: a slight turn of the head, a minor shift in his feet. Rick reacted on sheer impulse – emerging from behind the door, he closed the distance to this guard before he could fully-turn around in his direction. One hand grabbing the man's blue shirt and pulling him back, Rick did not hesitate with slicing the scalpel across his throat.

The guard just had enough time and strength to free himself from the grip and push Rick away before his free hand went to the gash, blood running down his neck and tainting his shirt and skin. Croaking, he fell to his knees.

“Freeze!” the other Murkoff guard yelled, causing Rick to turn his attention to him. The man was aiming his weapon at Rick – and, as it turned out, was not slow in his actions. 

A shot sounded through the room, followed by a burning pain in Rick's left arm and some weight suddenly clinging to it. 

A tranquillizer dart. 

He hissed as he pulled it out and tossed it aside before stepping towards the guard who holstered his pistol and armed himself with a baton instead, never letting Rick out of his sight.

Just in this moment another shot rang out from behind Rick. Another sharp pain emerged from his right lower back, accompanied by some hard object hanging on to it. Another dart? 

A brief turn of Rick's head confirmed the suspicion as his sight landed on the dying security guard. With his last remaining strength he was pointing his tranquillizer pistol at Rick before he ultimately collapsed from blood loss.

How much of tranquillizer Rick had now flowing through him he did not know. There was no telling how much time he had left until (or if) the substance would do its work. One thing became clear – they had no intentions of killing him. A faint feeling of relief washed over Rick, which faded right away however. Even if this was the case, the Murkoff employees were still no less of a danger to him – and a major obstacle.

“Jones to Control, I need backup in surgery room two. We have a rogue patient; one man down. Over and out.” The words escaped the remaining guard fast and urgent. He put the speaker of his radio away when Rick focused on him after pulling the second dart out.

Poised with his baton and assuming a fighting stance, the guard followed Rick's every movement, seemingly waiting for the tranquillizers to take effect.

Groaning, Rick made his move: he swung the scalpel at the guard, his wrist instantly met by a swift block with the baton. The impact hurt, but Rick managed to keep his grip on his tool. The guard did not wait with his counter attack – using one end of the baton, he struck Rick in his solar plexus, causing him to stagger. It felt as though the air was knocked out of his lungs. In this same moment dizziness seized him, his head feeling heavy. He breathed in, trying to focus. However, a subsequent strike to the hand holding the scalpel caused him to drop it. With a clank it fell on the ground.

Righting himself, Rick evaded the guard's attempt to go in for a submission attempt. Breathing became more difficult, but he could still keep himself on his feet. The guard frowned.

His hand burned, but it did not stop Rick from trying to get a hold on the guard's weapon arm. Attacks were answered by evasion, Rick trying to regain the upper hand in the scuffle while the guard tried to stall him. 

Fast, heavy footsteps and voices coming from several people sounded from the hallway, drawing closer, but Rick was so fixated on his opponent that he did not heed the noise. A mistake. 

Just when the people from whom the sounds originated entered the surgery room another shot rang out. This time it was followed by an immense pain spreading throughout Rick's entire body, originating from his back. He lost control over his movements and collapsed onto the floor with a scream, the pain persisting and accompanied by a crackle behind him.

The guard in front as well as whoever shot him rushed to subdue him. A group of Murkoff employees – medics judging from what little Rick could see – surrounded the operating table to tend to Waite. The men, their voices becoming increasingly muffled and difficult to distinguish, exchanged hushed words. 

How much time passed Rick could not estimate until another employee approached him and the security guards firmly holding him down and kneeled right beside his body. Soon after he felt a twinge in his left arm. 

The dizziness increased, all strength was fleeing Rick's body. He felt how his eyes began to close against his will. But in the end, he could not resist neither the guards, nor the substances now coursing in large amounts through his veins.

One realization remained in his mind: he had lost control once again.

A few more seconds, and everything turned black.

* * *

Something cold and hard pressed against his back. His head felt as though it could explode any moment. Barely managing to open his eye, he saw a ceiling flying past him. No. He was the one being carried off somewhere. His body felt as though it was floating. Muffled voices sounded around him, but he did not understand a single word. 

Darkness overtook him again.

Dozens of inhuman eyes gazed at him. Heat scorched his skin, coming from a fire surrounding him. Screams of agony from unseen people sounded far away. Dark mountains loomed ahead of him. Leeches clung to him trying to quench their never-ending hunger for his blood.

A large room bathed in a turquoise light. The shadows of men patrolling the place. The machine with its heavy wires – the source of that unbearable buzzing.

No. _No._

Loud, fast thumping mixed into the noise.

Some weight was lifted from him as countless arms dragged him off the hard surface and shoved him into a glass sphere. He felt like he would suffocate when they plugged all those tubes into him. 

The fire engulfed his body. 

Nothing. 

_His hand reached for the scissors lying on the table beside him. He lifted them and brought them down with all of his strength on the woman still sitting on the chair. Her tearful eyes widened as she registered the assault, helpless, no time given to do anything about it. The sharp blades pierced her abdomen, blood leaving the deep wound, tainting her dress and coating his hand. With a scream she fell on the floor. Rick swung the scissors again – and the next thing he knew he lay on the floor himself, a burning pain engulfing his entire scalp. He heard only that awful humming sound right behind him. Whirrr._

_“This was insane. Perhaps some therapy would do him good.”_

_Whirrr._

_His heart hammered in his chest. They could not possibly suggest this. This could not happen to him._

_Someone seized Rick by his arms, forcing him on his feet. A firm grip he could not escape._

_“Take him to the basement.”_

_Raw panic overtook him – he desperately tried to struggle, but to no avail. The arms grabbing him only strengthened their grasp._

_Soon they arrived in the huge room where that large, spherical black machine loomed above them. Whoever was put in there never came back the same. Like an insatiable monstrosity it had devoured countless of people, spitting out only empty shells of their former selves._

_And now he would be its next candidate. What would be left of him once they shoved him into the machine? He should not even be here. They should not have the right to do this to him._

_Eventually stripped of all of his belongings, Rick was forced into lying down on a cold operating table, his neck, arms, legs, and chest firmly kept in place by hard leather straps._

_Soon the table was surrounded by several Murkoff employees – a physician clad in his thick blue hazmat suit, security guards, the Mitigation officer Pauline Glick, Jeremy Blaire – the one he had once considered a close friend – and a lot of other people that had once been equals. They all stared at him with glee as he struggled against his restraints in vain._

_“Don't put me in! I'm a Murkoff executive! I'm one of you! Please!” he begged, his voice shaking. However, none of those around him seemed to be listening to him. It was as though they did not even hear him. His eyes wandered from one person to the other as he hoped that at least a single employee might object to this decision. No such mercy could be found._

_“Shh, it's alright. Everyone gets a little scared the first time. But you'll see that you'll come out much better afterwards,” a familiar male voice spoke in a friendly manner suddenly, getting louder as its owner slowly approached the table._

_Emerging from the crowd standing around him, the speaker revealed himself to be a walking skeleton of a man, dressed in scrubs so reminiscent of the patients' clothing. The short sleeves revealed the many scars littering the man's arms. His left eye was replaced by a gaping hole, the skin above it raked and ripped off. Most of his lips were gone as well. Shaggy grey hair has grown to his shoulders, the upper part of his scalp bald. In one bloodied hand he carried a large pair of double-edged bone shears._

_Rick's chest rose and fell, his eyes widening as he stared at the figure that stopped right beside the table. A hand reached for his wounded scalp, the touch almost gentle and caressing._

_“Please. You can't do this to me,” Rick said, shaking his head as much as the restraints allowed him to. “I'm not a bad guy! It's not my fault!”_

_“I'm certain it's not. But I'm afraid that you might suffer from a serious affliction. Don't worry though, we have just the right cure for you.”_

_The shears' blades glistened menacingly in the white light illuminating the room. The man brought them up, the tool hovering above Rick's body. Rick began to struggle even harder against the restraints, but they wouldn't budge even one bit._

_This was just a nightmare. Just a nightmare. He would wake up any time soon and find himself lying on a cosy bed._

_But the dream wouldn't cease. Why couldn't he just wake up?!_

_A barely visible black mist emerged from the hole in the man's skull as a swarm of tiny bugs started crawling out of it, down the man's narrow face, down his body and arms, onto the floor and the operating table. They got on Rick, sending a tingle up his entire body, which was soon replaced by a stinging pain as these bugs began digging themselves into him – tiny countless needles burrowing into his skin and muscles._

_“Just let me go, please! It's not my fault!” he screamed in desperation again, his voice turning hoarse._

_Then he saw_ her _from the corners of his eyes. Like the others she watched him, though her paled face revealed grief. Hurt. Blood leaked from the deep stab wound in her abdomen, staining her dress. In her arms she held a small bundle, cradling it, its contents hidden away from him. He could swear that he saw something move inside of it._

_It wasn't his fault. This could have been avoided. If they had just listened to him. If just..._

_“You can make it easier on yerself if you hold still.”_

_The shears rose up – and the moment after, a piercing screech escaped his throat._

* * *

A large pane of sturdy glass revealed a good look at the room behind it. On the hospital bed inside lay the newly-transferred patient. An IV tube connected to his right elbow, the attached bag with the saline liquid half-emptied. Next to the IV bag hung a bag of medical food that was being administered to the patient by a small device through a nasogastric tube.

The patient himself was still asleep. Perhaps for the better. 

Jeremy stood by the pane, watching. The assigned doctor had joined his company, his sight also directed to the patient.

“Richard Trager” white capital letters spelled on the glass. A name that had once been so familiar. Now it was just one of many to him – even when some sense of dread now clung to it. Maybe a hopeful number, too: 182.

Jeremy had never expected that he would once come across Rick in one of _these_ rooms. And yet, he had ultimately turned into one of the worst test subjects to handle. Who would have thought that the Morphogenic Engine and the hormone therapy would end up having such effects on him? Judging from the files Jeremy had peeked into, the results seemed fairly promising indeed – the only reason they had decided against putting him down.

“He was a friend of yours once, wasn't he, Mister Blaire?” the doctor spoke, not averting his glance.

“'Friend' is an unfitting term, Doctor Snow. I'd call him a former... colleague. Those who are looking for friends in the Murkoff Corporation are looking in the wrong direction. A spider might tolerate the presence of another one in its web for a while, but any wrong move, and one of them will end up getting devoured. He had gotten reckless – and faced the consequences for it,” Jeremy replied. “I am sure you are acquainted with his history.”

Doctor Snow nodded.

“Any new reports for the subject?” Jeremy inquired. 

“We found that the blood flow in his left arm became disturbed after the last Engine session. We couldn't determine the exact cause of it, strange as it is. A bypass was attached to the patient.”

“A bypass” must refer to the tubes coiling themselves round Rick's left arm, the transparent material revealing the blood flowing through them. Several needles punctured the lower arm. A tourniquet-like strap was put around the upper arm where the tubes emerged from.

“I must say I am surprised that he is still so... _alive_ with everything his body has been put through. I didn't figure he would turn into such an interesting model. His Morphogenic Engine activity has risen over time,” Doctor Snow continued. “But as you might already know, Mister Blaire, he is becoming more difficult to control. Restraints and strict surveillance have become an absolute must.”

“Project Walrider has always come with high risks. If things go as predicted, however, it will yield high profits worth every single one of them,” Jeremy said. “You are doing good work here. Continue as planned.”

“Yes, Mister Blaire.”

The two men looked at the patient again in silence for a short moment before they eventually left the hallway.

* * *

More muffled voices. Silence. He felt awake, but found it difficult to budge even a single inch. His eyelid felt heavy just like the rest of his body. Behind it images fluttered. The film hasn't stopped yet. His heart kept racing.

A dark forest around him, leafless branches and twigs twisting towards the night sky like some deformed fingers of a clawed monstrosity. Not a single soul to be seen, but he felt that he wasn't alone. He wanted to move – but then he felt a vice-like grip on his left arm. Nails dug into his skin and flesh, refusing to let go. _They couldn't do this to him._ The pressure increased...

Rick managed to open his eye at last. It took a few seconds to adjust to the bright light of the lamp above him. Looking around, he soon noticed that he has been brought to a new place. A white-tiled patient's room with a large pane revealing some dark hallway.

It was silent save for the regular rotation noise of some device operating right beside his bed. Feeling a scratch in the back of his throat, he soon figured out the reason for the noise. In addition, at least some pressure around his left upper arm remained. He noticed several tubes around his entire arm, red from the blood flowing through them.

The healthy corner of his remaining lips twisted into a half-smile. Rick had a suspicion about the place he was brought to. It must have been one of the patients' rooms in the basement of the facility, reserved for the worse, more dangerous patients. 

They really weren't done with him. No matter what.

A small part of him felt at ease for he still wasn't dead yet, but on the other hand... It felt like he has merely returned to square one. It did not matter what he tried – he would forever remain nothing more than a test subject. All of his plans would end up being thwarted by Murkoff's rigid security with what little resources he had. Rogue patients were no novelty to them after all.

Rick sighed, leaning back on the bed. His smile faded. How was he ever supposed to live his dream now? What _would_ become of him?

A deep murmur rang in his ears. 

He closed his eye, breathing in and out, trying to calm himself. It was fine – if he had managed to gain the upper hand twice, even for only such a short while, he should be able to do so again sometime _somehow_. He refused to quit. A surgeon needed patience.

Just... patience...

Only the hum of the light above him interrupted the dead silence of the room.

* * *

The daily routine after the relocation proved itself to be different, even more rigid than the previous one, if somewhat dull at times. Surveillance at every turn and every second when Rick was not locked up in his room. Instead of ordinary Murkoff security guards equipped with tranquillizers, batons or tazers there were heavily-armed and -armoured paramilitary forces. Patient violence or any attempts to break free could easily be met with lethal force here or, at the very least, with grievous injury without any second thought.

Yet the experiments did not stop.

The screens, the horrid, disconnected images, and the injections all remained very much the same. They wanted to see just how much further they could push him, never satisfied enough.  
Obviously they could not quite achieve the much-desired results yet. 

Despite everything, he has become another _Variant_.

Never could he find a way out of his situation – not one time has another opportunity arisen ever since his last attempt. The staff has learned from its mistakes and made sure to diminish every potential gap in the employees' vigilance.

Only a major overhaul of Murkoff's presence in the asylum would get him much closer to pursuing his career, his _dream_ , without any unwanted interference now. But alas, this was no longer his prerogative.

Thus he was forced to continue to endure everything the company saw fit to throw at the patients' heads in the name of profit. Project Walrider kept going on.

Later, as Rick figured, it turned out that Murkoff has made good progress on the project in fact. Perhaps even too good for their own sake...

What appeared to be another ordinary day – as ordinary as his circumstances could be described – seemed to have quickly turned into something entirely chaotic. Having dozed off, Rick was woken up by the many noises coming from the hallway outside of his room – Murkoff employees frantically running back and forth, voices filled with panic, and afterwards a loud alarm. 

Then the screams followed. Blood-curdling screams of agony and fear. Rick could not tell whether they were real or just another hallucination at first – bound to his bed by chains, he could not approach the pane to check the hallway more closely.

The noise did not cease.

Rick sat silent in his bed, unable to do anything but listen. He could swear that he heard gunshots echoing in the distance only for them to be abruptly stopped.

Afterwards there was buzzing. This horrendous buzzing that was getting louder and more _excruciating_ with every passing second. It came from the outside, from the inside of his head, vibrating in his very bone marrow.

His vision began to distort, a blurry haze turning into static in front of his eye. He saw and felt _it_ staring at him – this shapeless entity with its myriads of eyes and unfathomable proportions.

Rick clenched his teeth, pulling at his restraints.

And just as quickly as it had appeared it all vanished again, leaving only the noises of the unknown chaos behind.

Uncertainty grew inside Rick as he waited for _anything_ to reveal what was going on in the basement.

Minutes passed until someone finally appeared in front of the pane. However, this person was possibly the last Rick could have ever expected to see there. It was no Murkoff employee – it was a patient. Not a random one either; he recognized the patient from his last confrontation with another Variant in one of the patients' break rooms long before he was relocated to the basement. Something about this face seemed to have stayed well in Rick's memory. 

Dark red splotches tainted the patient's clothing. In one hand he held something looking like keys, in the other a stained knife. The man was obviously looking at Rick, his lips curving upwards in an almost indiscernible smile. 

The patient disappeared behind the metal door leading to Rick's room. A second after Rick heard the door being unlocked. 

His pulse increased. There was no telling what the patient intended to do. Something major must be going on though if there was no security to deal with the runaway here.

The chains felt heavier than before. He could do nothing but watch and wait and _hope_ for the best. Breathing in, Rick put a half-smile on his face, not letting his increasing worries show.

The door opened, and the patient entered. 

“Well, look who it is! Didn't think I'd ever see your face around here, buddy,” Rick spoke first, sounding delighted. “That's quite the ruckus outside; you wouldn't happen to know what's going on there?”

“The doctors called it a lateral ascension. The Walrider is roaming free and tears through everyone standing in its path. Many of us escaped through the turmoil. Things are changing now,” the patient answered while approaching the bed.

An uproar? The Walrider? Could it really be? This truly was something big. Who could have...?

Memories resurfaced in small fragments. Rick understood in an instant. 

So that kid, Billy Hope – Murkoff's most hopeful test subject for as long as Rick could remember – must have truly succeeded in taking control of the nanobot swarm – and had not hesitated to use it, having gone out of Murkoff's control. Something that would now come with a great cost to the company...

He chuckled. How he would love to see this with his own eye. Unfortunately...

“You've left an impression, bones. I got interested in your offer; hope you're still hiring. I'm here to free you,” the Variant continued, stopping right beside Rick. “The pay better be good.”

The patient picked the smallest key among those he had acquired and began unshackling Rick, the chains falling one by one with a clank. Once the last restraint was undone, Rick sat up and rubbed his joints that have become sore from the metal.

“Ah, thanks, buddy. It's good to know that there is still someone I can rely on,” Rick said, standing up. He turned to the patient, a smile on his disfigured face. “Well, let's not waste any time then, shall we? There is a lot of work to catch up on.”

Rick walked towards the open door with the patient following him.

Perhaps things weren't as hopeless as Rick had feared them to be after all. Here was his big chance to rise up to his position finally. To rise up for good this time. And he wasn't even alone now.

Mount Massive Asylum was ripe for an overhaul. The chief surgeon would see to it. All he would need to do was to prepare and set up his operations in a proper way. 

Doctor Richard Trager would be back to business at last.


End file.
